The Long Goodbye
by Cynical-Banshee
Summary: Eternity is fleeting. College AU; no magic.
1. Little Things

Chapter One - Little Things

The summer Madoka turned twelve, she came within inches of losing her life.

She was walking hand in hand with her mother through downtown Mitakihara, having just finished lunch. It was a rare day off for her mother; Junko Kaname had reserved the entire day for her daughter. Madoka remembered being very happy that day, because she rarely got to see her mother outside of the mornings or very late at night those days. She was still very busy today, of course, but nothing compared to back then.

Downtown Mitakihara was well known for being a gathering place for the affluent. Mixed in amongst the blocks of high end designer stores were high rise apartments that had been recently approved by the local government. The people who lived in these buildings were wealthy for a variety of reasons; medicine, politics, business, the arts. But back then, all Madoka saw were the soaring high rises cloaked in glittering chrome plates, like massive raindrops frozen in time.

Unknown to Madoka, one of those high rises had recently acquired a new inhabitant. His name was Maik Guo, and he was a world renowned classical pianist. Not that neither she nor her mother would have known, with their lack of appreciation for that sort of thing. Guo had kicked off a world tour in China two months prior, and was now beginning the Japanese leg of his journey; thus his decision to rent out a floor in one of Mitakihara's brand new high rise buildings.

Much to the landowner's mortification, Guo absolutely insisted that a grand piano be brought up to his floor. And since something of that size had no business fitting into the elevators, they would have no choice but to call a construction crane and have it lifted up and inserted through Guo's balcony.

The landowner tried to talk Guo out of it, but he merely scoffed and said they were lucky he had rented a six foot Steinway instead of the seven foot Bösendorfer he usually preferred. The landowner sighed and went to call the crane company.

Later that weekend, Madoka spotted the soaring crane parked on the side of the street in front of the building. The Steinway was wrapped in a huge white cloth and tied up in all sorts of complicated pulleys. A thick knot of men swarmed around the piano, shouting instructions at one another. A few passerby had stopped to watch the spectacle, murmuring amongst themselves.

"I will never understand these artistic types," she remembered her mother saying. "Madoka, your mother is going to pick up some cigarettes from that store across the street. I don't want you near that stuff, so wait here for a minute, okay?"

Madoka waited next to the Steinway, absently eating a lollipop her mother had bought her earlier. She watched as the men made one last routine check on the piano, then signaled to the crane that it was ready.

An engine rumbled to life inside the machine, and the crane began to lift. Madoka remembered being fascinated as the cloaked piano levitated into the air. She wondered who was both rich and stubborn enough to have an entire piano crane-lifted into their apartment. Maybe money just made everyone go crazy.

Madoka's head craned back until the piano was blotted out by the sun behind it. Shielding her eyes, she vaguely remembered her mother always telling her not to stand around in the sun, less she get a bad tan. Turning on her heel, she retreated to the shadows of an alcove a few meters away, crunching on her lollipop.

What she didn't know was that two of the men who had secured the piano were nursing severe hangovers from the night before. She didn't know that they had merely glossed over the routine check and signaled the crane to lift anyway. And when the Steinway was well over a hundred feet in the air, swaying ominously in the city wind, one poorly tied knot came loose and sagged over in defeat.

The rest happened awfully quickly. One moment she was finishing her lollipop, then next moment a deafening crash exploded across the concrete behind her. Madoka screamed and threw her hands over her head, falling to the sidewalk. The sound of splintering wood echoed down the length of the street. A collective group of screams leapt out of a dozen throats, and then a single, jarring musical note, distorted and warped, the death rattle of a piano that never got to sing.

She was dazed for several minutes from the shock. Junko sprinted from across the street and scooped Madoka into her arms, ferrying her away from the scene. She recalled only her mother's voice from that moment, telling her that she was going to be alright, that she was safe.

She had several splinters in her arms and in the backs of her legs when she got to the hospital. It took hours to remove them, and she cried through every one. Junko sat by the bed and held her hand the entire time, squeezing back whenever Madoka flinched beneath the doctor's tweezers. She kissed her daughter's hair and stroked it, telling Madoka how strong she was, that everything would be okay.

Miraculously, nobody was seriously hurt in the accident. In fact, the biggest casualty was likely Maik Guo's wallet. What could have been front page news was relegated to a small box on the last page of the paper, before fading quietly into obscurity.

But as Madoka lay in the hospital bed that night, facedown so that her splinter wounds could heal properly, she couldn't stop thinking that she had lived simply because she hadn't wanted to get a tan. The Steinway had crushed the exact spot she had been standing only moments prior. Had she not moved, she would have been reduced to a bloody mess on a sidewalk in downtown Mitakihara, mixed in with the ebony and white of the Steinway.

As she learned that day, sometimes little things became big happenings. And sometimes innocent thoughts opened the door to something much deeper, darker, and unfathomable than an arrogant pianist in a high rise apartment.

* * *

In the spring of her eighteenth year, her best friend got her first girlfriend.

Sayaka was always the type to dive into things headfirst, so Madoka was not at all surprised that the bluenette beat her in the "first real relationship" category. Her best friend had always been a lot more open about her sexuality than Madoka, who still had yet to come out to her own parents.

She still remembered the day she and Sayaka came out to one another. They had both admitted it in her bedroom one languid summer day, when the sun was setting and the walls were painted in a dark, bleeding orange. Nobody was home, it was just the two of them, but they spoke in hushed whispers, seized by the conviction that they were engaging in something forbidden merely by uttering those words.

But with the admittance came a certain sense of relief, that she wasn't alone with these feelings. In fact, she was elated that she could share the experience with her best friend. Those were days filled with tentative joy and fervent curiosity; though Madoka refused to entertain even the thought of experimenting with Sayaka, while the latter seemed rather open to the idea.

"If it had to be anyone, I would rather it be you, Madoka," the girl teased her, leaning in for a mock kiss.

Madoka laughed and pushed her friend's face away. "No way! You're like family! Kissing you is like kissing Tatsuya!"

Sayaka pouted, crawling across the bed on her hands and knees. "You don't kiss Tatsuya?"

"Not on the lips," Madoka scoffed, lifting one socked foot and pushing Sayaka away.

The other girl sighed in an exaggerated manner, sitting back on the mattress. "Yeah, I know. I'm just messing around. But when I get a girlfriend you're going to be totally jealous. I'll never shut up about her!"

Madoka rolled her eyes. "That's about what I would expect from you."

Sayaka growled and tackled her after that, tickling her midsection. The bed creaked as the two girls descended into a fit of giggles, pressing against each other. But it was platonic; Madoka was fine with that. In her view, doing romantic or sexual things with close friends seemed a little wrong.

You weren't supposed to date your best friend, right? Maybe it was naive, but she had always dreamed of a storybook romance. A magical first encounter; someone who would sweep her off her feet. There was simply no other way she could accept falling in love!

That was a long time ago. She was eighteen now, but she still believed a lot of the same things she did back then.

"Anyways, Kyouko took us to the supermarket for our first date," Sayaka said, back in the present day.

Madoka sighed. That day was well over five years ago now. She had been absolutely enamored by the news that her best friend was seeing someone, and in the second semester of their freshman year at college, no less.

"The _supermarket?" _She said. "You mean like, a restaurant inside a supermarket?"

"I wish," Sayaka muttered. "But no. The literal supermarket. Shopping carts and all."

"…was it fun?"

Her best friend laughed. "Yes. I was so mad. Kyouko honestly didn't know what to say, but I don't blame her. I had a great time, and I was pissed that it actually turned out to be a great time. Is that the power of love?"

Madoka smiled. "Do you love her?"

Sayaka blushed. "Well, I don't know about that yet…it's only been a couple months. But she's great. I have a lot of fun when I'm around her."

Madoka hummed, dragging a comb through the girl's damp locks. "I'll have to officially meet this Kyouko sometime soon."

"I'll arrange it," Sayaka promised. Madoka made an approving noise and continued snipping away at the girl's hair.

"Is that what the sudden call for a cut was for?" The pinkette asked, using her scissors to soften some ends.

She saw her friend's cheeks color in the mirror. "Kyouko said she likes it short."

It was lunch hour on a Wednesday afternoon. Madoka only had morning class on Wednesdays, so she typically spent the rest of the day at the salon near campus, where she worked as a stylist in training. She was still rather new to the job, having only started it when she arrived at university last semester, so she was only allowed to handle simple cuts for now, like shortening Sayaka's hair impromptu.

Being a weekday, the salon was usually slow during this time. Only one other customer was getting a cut at the moment, at the far end of the salon. Sayaka was seated in the chair by the door, cloaked in a black robe. Strands of soft blue hair gathered in a pile beneath the chair, like bits of the sky had cracked and fallen down to earth.

Madoka smiled to herself as she snipped away. "It reminds me of middle school, having your hair this short. You grew it out in high school because you wanted to look more 'girly.'"

Sayaka's blush deepened. "Yeah, then I finally land someone and she says she likes it short. God might as well have given me the finger personally."

They both laughed at that. Soft indie music played from a speaker her manager had set up on the counter. Madoka felt herself settling into a groove as she wove her way through Sayaka's hair, keeping up a languid conversation with her friend.

Outside, the streets of uptown Mitakihara were as crowded as ever. Countless faces appeared, disappeared, then reappeared within moments of each other. Men and women in suits, children in uniforms, and everyone in between.

They were all going about leading their own lives, lives that she had no idea about. Madoka liked to think, whenever she watched the crowd, that they were all walking towards something greater.

But as it turned out, some of them were walking towards something darker.

A small flock of birds sitting on the sidewalk exploded upwards and caught her eye. Looking back, it was because of this little flock of birds that Madoka saw what she saw. Her eyes tracked their movement to the cafe across the street, straining through a flurry of wings that seemed to move in slow motion.

But her eyes remained still, because they saw someone they recognized.

A tall woman with deep mahogany hair, cut into a graduated bob. A dark business suit and white blouse. Striking features; even in a crowd this thick, she cut an imposing figure.

But Madoka would have recognized her regardless. The fear, the confusion, came instead from the person she saw walking next to her mother.

Junko Kaname was walking across the street with a man Madoka did not recognize, his arm wrapped firmly around her mother's waist.

Then she blinked and the birds were gone, having taken flight. The crowd shifted and swallowed them up, and they too were gone, as if consumed.

"Anyways, Kyouko's like, obsessed with food," Sayaka said. "She once sniffed two oranges that I bought a day apart and could tell which one was older than the…Madoka?"

"Sorry Sayaka," Madoka murmured, setting her scissors down. "Just…give me a second…"

Before she knew it she was pushing her way out the door of the salon and running out onto the street. The bell fastened to the door jingled wildly, and the afternoon heat enveloped her to moment she stepped outside.

_"Madoka…? Madoka!"_ Sayaka's voice receded into the background as Madoka darted across the street, nearly getting run over by a cab. It honked loudly at her, but she was in too much of a hurry to apologize, pushing her way through the ever thickening midday crowds.

She got across the street and emerged in front of the cafe, but her mother wasn't there. Panting heavily, she turned and pushed her way further up the block, standing on her tip toes and straining to see over people's heads. The crowd surged around her, a wall of flesh and clothing.

After one final push she stumbled out onto a crosswalk at the end of the block. She ground to halt and stood there, the crowds splitting and flowing around her like she was a rock in a stream.

Madoka breathed heavily as she turned in a full circle, eyes scanning the masses of humanity. Curious eyes watched her from the crowd. Nameless celebrities and advertising mascots stared from huge billboards placed atop office buildings, and the streets seethed with the roiling heat of a million cars.

But her mother was nowhere to be found.

She bent over to catch her breath. After a few moments the street light blinked to let her know she should get off the street. She turned and began walking slowly back to the salon, wiping at her brow.

In the distance, Madoka saw the tops of the downtown high rise apartments peeking down at her.

_Was I just imagining things?_

* * *

Sayaka was still sitting in her chair when Madoka returned to the salon, reading a magazine.

"Oh good, you're back," she said, closing the magazine and setting it aside. The girl cracked a smile. "You know, I don't mind paying half price if you only wanted to give me half a haircut."

Madoka blushed, pulling out her hair tie and pulling back her hair again. "Sorry…I kind of just lost it for a second there."

Her friend tilted her head. "What happened? Did you see someone you know?"

For a moment there was only the low hum of the air conditioner, and the occasional snip of scissors. The lone stylist and her customer in the back of the room watched her through the corners of their eyes, murmuring to each other.

"I…um…saw a celebrity!" Madoka blurted out, scratching her head sheepishly. "Or I thought I did, anyway. Total look alike! You would have been totally fooled too if you saw him. Good thing I noticed before I said anything."

Sayaka snorted. "Seriously? Who did you mistake him for?"

"Uh…oh, you know. One of those models you see everywhere but don't know the names of," she said quickly, snatching up her scissors. "Anyways, let's get your hair fixed first."

She got back to cutting as Sayaka returned to her magazine. As she worked, Madoka wondered why she had lied to her friend. But what was she supposed to say? What was the truth in the first place? She wasn't entirely sure what it was that she had just seen. It had all happened so quickly, and the majority of her vision was obscured by the flock of birds. She could be entirely mistaken.

Madoka put the finishing touches on Sayaka's hair, then took her over to have it shampooed. After blowing drying it and applying some product, the two of them rendezvoused at the front desk.

"I'll give you a discount," Madoka said, ringing up her friend's total. She smiled sheepishly. "For running out earlier."

Sayaka grinned, handing her a card. "If it means cheaper cuts, maybe I should have a celeb walk by every time I come."

Madoka blushed as she waved goodbye to her friend, who let herself out the door. "I'll see you at home later?" The bluenette asked.

She nodded, and Sayaka smiled before being swallowed by the crowd.

The rest of the day passed without particular event. Once Madoka's shift ended she slipped out of her apron, said goodbye to her manager, and hopped on a bus bound for campus. She sat in the far back next to the window, cheek pressed against the glass. The twilight heat tickled her skin, a chaste kiss that wouldn't let her thoughts rest.

It was rush hour, so it took longer than usual to reach the university. The sun had already set when Madoka exited the bus and made her way into campus, a bag slung over her shoulder. By the time Madoka carded through security and made her way into the school library, an elegant glass covered affair, she had more or less convinced herself that what she had seen earlier that day was a mistake on her part.

The library was mostly empty when she arrived, but that was because it wasn't exam season. Once midterms rolled around people would show up like they suddenly remembered their tuition included the cost of maintaining the library.

Not that Madoka minded; she liked her peace and quiet. She chose a cozy spot by the window and cracked open her notebook and pencils.

Today's study session concerned European history. Centuries ago, Henry VIII was the unfortunate king of England. Though he was married to Catherine of Aragon, he fell for an aristocrat named Anne Boleyn sometime in the early 1500s. Henry could not divorce Catherine for Anne, however, because divorce was forbidden under the Catholic Church.

What took place afterwards was rather convoluted and dense, but Madoka surmised that in order to part ways with Catherine and legitimize his ties with Anne, Henry broke ties with the Roman Catholic Church and established a new Church of England, one which would recognize his divorce. The guy seriously created a new religion so he could end his marriage.

Amusingly enough, that was one of the original reasons why a Catholic and Protestant split existed under Christianity in the first place. Poor old Henry just wanted to be with the woman he loved. And if that meant splitting the entire world in two, so be it, she supposed. She did find it to be romantic, in a warped sort of way. But she wasn't sure if she approved.

It made her wonder how different the world would be, if Henry had never laid eyes upon Anne in his court that fateful day.

Madoka listened to music when she studied, but typically kept the volume low to protect her hearing. So she was just barely able to pick up an audible gasp that sounded somewhere behind her.

Plucking out an earphone, Madoka turned and caught sight of a young couple stealing a private moment behind a nearby bookshelf. The boy had the girl pushed up against the books, a sly smile plastered across his face. The girl, despite giggling in protest, did not push him away.

Madoka's eyes widened when she saw a questing hand disappear beneath the hem of a shirt, then another barely audible gasp. Going beet red, she quickly turned around and jacked up the volume in her earphones, burying her nose in her book.

Really! Doing such things in a library! Some people had no shame.

But then she closed the book, and Henry's caricature stared back at her. Madoka supposed then that people had done worse things for love.

* * *

She studied later than usual that night. But she had things to keep off her mind.

Following Henry's death from obesity in 1547, Madoka packed her things and rose from her seat. The library was almost dead quiet by now; even the flirtatious couple from earlier that retired for the night.

Her footsteps echoed forlornly as she made her way down the hallway, past the dark and looming bookshelves. Her earphones were jammed in, volume cranked up. Something caught her attention through the corner of her eye; her own reflection, walking alongside her in the row of glass windows.

Madoka came to a slow stop, staring at herself in the window. Beyond her caricature, city lights danced outside like forgotten dreams. It occurred to her that she didn't remember most of her dreams. But the ones she did remember were stuck inside her forever, impossible to erase.

She couldn't stop thinking about what she had seen earlier that day. Any self convincing she had accomplished before melted away beneath the grip of night. It replayed in her mind like a film reel scorched across the backs of her eyeballs. The heaving of the crowd; her mother's unmistakable outline. And then the arm, so foreign and unexpected and unfathomable, snaking around the woman's waist.

Who was he? Why was he? Once she accepted what she had seen, the questions came forth like a vengeful storm. Was it all really just a misunderstanding? She had seen what she had seen, but she could have interpreted it incorrectly. But how else was she to interpret what she'd witnessed? For what other reason did two people hold each other in that manner?

Could she ask her mother about it?

Madoka blinked and realized her face was contorted in the window. Shaking her head violently, she turned and walked hurriedly down the hall.

The echo of her shoes against the floor. They reminded her vaguely of the hollow noise a piano key makes when pressed. The image of that demolished Steinway flickered within the recesses of her mind.

Maybe if she had done a better job of convincing herself, she wouldn't have dawdled by the window that night. And if she didn't, perhaps she wouldn't have seen what she then saw.

But sometimes little things became big happenings. Such was the legacy of Maik Guo.

Madoka reached the end of the hall and called the elevator. As she waited impatiently, tapping her finger against her thigh, the song she was listening to ended.

The silence it left behind was quickly filled. The sound of soft crying, anguish barely held back.

Turning her head to the side, Madoka saw her.

A beautiful raven haired girl was sitting on the floor against a bookshelf, a thick book clutched against her chest as she wept.

For some indescribable reason, those tears took Madoka back to the summer she turned twelve.

* * *

**It certainly has been a long time since I last posted on here. It feels weird to be back, but good, and I'm excited to be working on another multichapter fic for this fandom.**

**The long and short of my return is as follows: I haven't written anything longer than a thousand words in more than a year, and I decided it was time to get back into the game. Fanfiction is a good place to start, I think, because it'll let me get back into the groove of things without too much pressure. This chapter alone is the longest thing I've written in ages. You might notice I'm not cranking out 15,000 word chapters anymore, because my stamina just isn't there yet!**

**This story is a college AU that has little to do with canon. Following Silent Melody, I want to write a very different story with characters I neglected in the past, namely Madoka and her mother Junko. I think my writing style has changed a lot over the years, and I may not be as naturally comfortable writing fanfic as I once was, but I hope you will all bear with me.**

**Thank you for reading my work!**

**-Banshee**


	2. Stories

Chapter Two - Stories

Nakagawa Tobio reached over to the bowl of candies, popping one into his mouth.

Homura's eyebrow twitched at the move. He had done that precisely four times already since the beginning of their conversation, and it was starting to get on her nerves. The man's teeth must be rotten with the way he scarfed those things down.

"So," he said, "I hope we can reach some sort of agreement."

The girl in question arced her eyebrow this time. "Yes, that is why I am here. But you don't seem willing to compromise."

Nakagawa Tobio sighed.

It was a sweltering hot afternoon. Afternoon because Homura had been forced to ditch a class just to make it to this meeting, and sweltering hot because whoever paid the bills for the building was too cheap to turn on the air conditioning. It was still spring, but the inside of the office made her feel like a pound cake on Christmas. Several fans hummed quietly on the folding desks scattered nearby.

As Homura resisted the urge to wipe at the sweat accumulating on her brow, the man sitting across from her cleared his throat. From beneath the desk he produced a manilla envelope that was stuffed full with sheets of paper.

"On the question of your manuscript…or should I say, manuscripts…why did you have to send so many?" Turning the envelope over, he dumped some of its contents onto the desk. Out spilled several copies of the same document, typed up neatly in a serif font.

Homura shrugged. "You wouldn't return my emails. I dropped by and your receptionist refused to let me up. I had to do something."

"And I suppose killing about a dozen trees just to make a point counts as 'something.'"

Homura smiled mirthlessly. "Well I'm sitting in your office now, aren't I, Toby?"

The man reddened. "Don't call me that! Literally nobody I know calls me that! It's _Tobio._"

"Now look Toby," Homura said, leaning forward. "You've at least read the manuscript, haven't you? Don't tell me you haven't bothered, after all the pestering I've done."

Toby sighed again, grabbing some of the papers and using them to fan himself.

"Yes, I did. I read most of it. And to be honest with you, I can't say I found it very captivating."

This gave Homura pause. The editor leaned over and grabbed another candy from the bowl sitting between them.

"You're tenacious, I'll give you that," he continued while chewing. "That's not bad; I remember being young and hungry like you once. And your writing? It's pretty decent, on its own. But your premise is boring. There's no _flavor._ I'm just gonna give it to you straight, kid. As it currently stands, your manuscript is just a red line waiting to happen."

Homura narrowed her eyes. "Help me improve it, then. Aren't you an editor?"

Toby shook his head, plucking out another candy. "No can do. I'm busy enough with all the other titles we've got coming up on our catalogue. Besides, print publication is dying. You know that, I know that. You can't expect me to take a risk on some rookie whose vision doesn't match up to her stubbornness."

The words stung. Homura clenched her fist on top of the table and stared hard at it. Her nails sank into the skin of her palm, and the sweat there made it sting too.

Outside, a pair of cars honked at one another. Behind it was the shuffling of countless people filing by. Somewhere else in the office, a phone rang and was answered. To Homura they were the sounds of a world moving on and leaving her behind.

"What am I supposed to do then?" She said finally. "I'm not going to give up. I won't."

Toby sighed. He seemed to like sighing as much as he liked candy. "No, I didn't expect you would. For starters, bring me something more interesting. Don't ask me what that means either. Rewrite this, or write something completely new; I don't care. Look, your technical skills alone aren't bad. But if you want to make it in this business, you've got to stand out. And not in a bad way."

Homura stared at the editor, at his middling height and slightly balding hair and stereotypical wrinkles, and wondered what the hell he could possibly know about standing out.

"I'll do my best," she muttered. "Next time I come, can I expect to be let up normally?"

Toby reached for a candy. Homura snatched the bowl and stood up, holding it out of his reach.

"Yes, yes, you can," he grumbled. "Give me that."

Homura handed the candies to Toby, who traded them for her manuscripts. She took them, somehow displeased at the weight they had in her palm.

"Good luck," Toby said. "I hope you write something good."

"I hope you manage to pay the air conditioning bill," Homura replied, before disappearing through the door.

Stepping outside the building actually made her feel cooler. Tugging at her shirt collar, Homura hopped on the bike she had arrived on and pedaled away. She had borrowed the bike from her roommate earlier, as the meeting was approved on very short notice.

Seeing as how she had ditched lecture, she had a couple hours to kill. At first she thought about going to the campus library to work on her manuscript some more, but all she ended up doing when she got there was sitting with her face pressed against the table, trying to absorb its coolness.

The library was empty, aside from herself. She liked it for that very reason. Homura often came here when she was in a bad mood, which was fairly often, because being around people usually ruined her mood even further.

The manilla envelope sat next to her nose, staring back at her. Was her manuscript really that bad? Actually, Toby had said her literal writing was fine. It was her premise that needed work. Which was just about the same as telling a musician he was perfectly on tempo but wasn't enjoyable to listen to. What was form without substance? Some glasses were half full, others half empty, but hers was just empty.

Huffing, Homura sat up straight in her seat. What made a premise good anyway? What made a story idea _interesting?_ The plot of_ To Kill a Mockingbird_ was astoundingly boring on paper, but the writing was fantastic. _The Vegetarian_ had both a fascinating concept and elegant prose. _The Great Gatsby_ had neither.

Getting up, Homura walked through the rows of bookshelves and starting picking out random books to pore over. Long books, short books; autobiographies and fantasy epics. What did Murakami, Lovecraft and Kafka all have in common?

Aside from a morbid fascination with the bizarre and unexplainable, probably the fact that they were published.

_Maybe I should write a story about Toby turning into a roach. I bet he'd like that._

He wouldn't.

* * *

Since before the beginning, stories had been Homura's solace.

Truth be told, she spent most of her time alone. She spoke to her roommate, Kyouko, in the mornings and before bed. But in between she hardly ever said anything to anyone. In class, in the library, in the bus to and from campus, she kept to herself. In fact, if Kyouko was out with her girlfriend all day Homura was liable to go more than twenty four hours without uttering a single word.

Instead, she often spent that time reading. Or thinking about stories. Or writing in her head. Most of what she did with her brain, aside from studying or brooding, had something to do with stories.

Her favorite story was a book called _The_ _Glass Garden._ She loved this story because she felt strongly that it had been written specifically for her to read. It concerned a young girl named Calliope who, following a traumatic experience, began wearing a grotesque mask over her face in an attempt to hide from the world.

She remembered finding the book as a sophomore in high school and reading it cover to cover in two days. The moment she finished it she flipped back to the first page and read it again. After reading it three times in a single week, she went to sit in a park and wondered how someone she had never met could understand her so thoroughly.

Looking back, that was when she decided she wanted to be a writer. She had written stories before, but they were casual, flippant things; hardly anything she could share with the world. No, she wanted to write something someone else could read and feel like weeping after. She wanted to touch the hearts of others.

Growing up, she had always had trouble fitting in. Homura never really figured out the exact reason why. In stories outcasts were always created for a specific reason. But real life didn't work that way. She spent most of middle and high school in the library by herself, reading and writing. She listened to music and stand up comedy and watched documentaries about things she would never have to know, trying to scrounge together an understanding of the world she lived in.

It wasn't until she got to college that Homura realized this was the reason why she wanted to write. If she could write something people connected to, it must mean she had some understanding of how human beings worked. People bothered her; they aggravated her, confused her. She largely wanted nothing to do with them, but at the same time couldn't help wondering what she was missing out on. She wanted to prove to herself that she understood people, and then cast them aside, if only to feel human without being human.

It was an ugly wish, but it was hers.

Homura dumped her manuscript on the table and shuffled through it. Contrary to his word, Toby had circled and crossed out a few things on some of the pages, with notes scribbled in the margins. But they were insubstantial suggestions, pity edits; she knew from reading them that they wouldn't make her story readable.

She had studying to do, but Homura spent the rest of the afternoon reading through her manuscript one last time before throwing it in the trash. She had it backed up on her computer anyways. But she doubted anything would ever come of that story.

Outside, night was falling. Shadows lengthened as Homura made her way to the back of the library, scanning the rows of books with a calculating eye.

It wasn't long before she found what she was looking for: a worn, battered copy of _The Glass Garden_, the only one this library carried. Nobody ever checked it out, or even knew of its existence; it was always in the same spot when Homura came back to look at it.

She teased the book out from its spot on the shelf and sat down on the floor right there, easing it open. Homura spent the next two hours reading, her concentration broken only by the occasional flipping of a page.

What was this feeling? This wasn't why she wanted to read this story again. She had wanted to escape to a better place, a better time. But the further she got into the book, the more words she devoured and dissolved into her bloodstream, the more a feeling of inadequacy built up inside her chest.

Why couldn't she write something like this? What did she lack that this author had? She didn't want to accept that it might be something she would never have. She wanted a dream; she wanted to conquer the things she was afraid of. But the prose in the book she held told her it would never be so; with every beautiful metaphor, each elegantly crafted line.

She wasn't a crier. Even after losing her parents Homura never once shed a tear. She hardly even cried after reading _The Glass Garden_ for the first time, though she wanted to.

But today was different. Her tears dampened the wrinkles pages beneath her fingers. Toby's words echoed in her mind, and her heart ached. It was the feeling of fear born from lack of understanding.

Maybe she wasn't meant to understand.

"Hey, are you okay?"

* * *

Madoka wasn't quite so sure why she approached the crying girl in the library. Part of her thought maybe it was best to leave them well enough alone. It was late.

But her conscience wouldn't allow it. It would hurt her too, to abandon someone who was hurting.

"Hey, are you okay?"

The raven haired girl flinched and look up. For a brief moment Madoka saw her tear filled amethyst eyes.

The girl hastily wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, standing up abruptly. The book clattered to the floor; she cursed and picked it up, dusting it off very carefully before placing it back on the shelf.

"Of course," she said, her voice thick. "I'm completely fine."

Madoka frowned. "Are you sure? I saw you crying just now…"

The girl cleared her throat, and turned to face Madoka. Miraculously, she looked completely fine. "Yes, I am quite alright. Thank you for asking."

Madoka smiled at the stranger. She was a little taller than Madoka, with dark hair that swept all the way down to her waist. It must have taken ages to grow that long. She had a small, pale face, like a princess from a fairytale.

"I guess it was a sad story?" She asked, gesturing at the bookshelf. The girl followed her hands and seemed to blush gently.

"Yes," the girl echoed. "A sad story."

She said nothing more, and an awkward silence ensued. Madoka shifted from foot to foot. "Last bus is leaving campus soon. Do you take the bus home? Wouldn't want you to miss it."

The girl blinked. "It's that late? I didn't realize…"

Madoka laughed. "I guess you must have really liked that book!"

The elevator dinged nearby, its doors sliding open. The two of them walked inside, standing at a rather particular distance from each other.

"So, what's your name?" Madoka asked. "I'm Madoka."

"Homura," the girl said. "Akemi Homura."

"Homura," Madoka said, as if tasting her name. "Books are wonderful, aren't they, Homura? I'll admit I don't read much, but when I really like a book I can spend all day reading it."

Homura gave her a sidelong look that seemed to question why in the world Madoka was trying to make smalltalk. It cowed the pinkette somewhat; the girl's eyes were deep and shrewd, like a forest at night.

"Yes, I would agree," Homura said finally. "What would you say makes a story interesting, in your opinion?"

"Huh?" Madoka frowned at the ceiling. She hadn't been prepared for such an involved question. "I don't really know…I enjoy romances and dramas, I suppose. I like shorter books better than long ones. It's hard to remember everything that happens."

Homura surprised her by sighing. "Yes, I suppose most people would agree with you."

The elevator hovered down to the lobby before letting them out. The night air was warm and infused with the smell of spring. They walked together to the bus stop, which was empty aside from the two of them, quiet streetlights dozing above the asphalt.

"What do you think makes a story interesting, then?" Madoka asked. She sat down on the bench next to the stop, but Homura remained standing.

Homura made a face. "Wouldn't I like to know? My editor told me today that my manuscript was boring."

Madoka raised her eyebrows. "You have an editor? Are you an author?"

"Trying to be," the other girl corrected. "To be honest, I'm not making much progress."

"So you're a writer? That's so cool!" Homura blinked in surprise. "I'm awful with essays and such in class, so I always envy people who are good at that sort of thing. It's wonderful that you have a dream you're chasing."

For the first time, Madoka saw Homura smile. "Thank you. But I wouldn't say I'm quite good, not yet. I can't even tell an interesting story yet. Although, it astounds me that my editor thought he could call me boring. He's one of the most average people I've ever laid eyes upon."

Madoka found herself laughing. "Hey, that's not nice! He took the time to read your manuscript, didn't he?"

"Yes, and then he lit it up and told me to get better." Homura shook her head. "I know. I'm just bitter. Making something big out of nothing. Then again, that's what stories are, aren't they?"

Madoka smiled softly. "You could say that."

Homura smiled wanly back, and took a seat beside her on the bench. A family of crickets chirped somewhere nearby.

"Stories are just making something out of nothing," Homura repeated, as if to herself. "Maybe there's something in that transition I don't understand. But sometimes nothing is just…nothing. How do you know when 'nothing' can be 'something?' You see things every day that could mean the end of the world, if you think hard enough. But it never happens, until it does."

Sometimes little things became big happenings. And it was a little thing that caused Madoka to say what she said next. Looking back on it, she wanted to belittle the fear she was carrying by laughing at it. She wanted to act like she understood everything so she could just forget. But the very fact that she thought that would work betrayed her ignorance.

"I know what you mean," she said, smiling down at her lap. "You know, earlier this afternoon, I saw something that didn't make any sense. I saw my mom, walking across the street. She was with a man I didn't recognize. He had his arm around her."

She wanted to say it like it was nothing, like it was ridiculous. She wanted Homura to laugh and tell her how stupid the thing she had just said was. But no laughter was forthcoming. And she was left with nothing but a raw hollowness, the realization that she had desperately said something stupid in hopes of a relief that didn't exist.

Homura was very still beside her. "…What do you mean? Are your parents divorced?"

"No, they're still together." Her voice wobbled a bit at the end, and she hated herself for it. "They live together downtown, and they've got me and my kid brother. My dad keeps a tomato farm in the backyard and my mom kisses him goodbye every morning. They're very much in love. They tell me about it all the time. So you see, what I saw today makes no sense. Isn't it strange? It must be one of those things, like you said. Just nothing. Nothing at all."

A low rumble sounded off in the distance. The bus's headlights flooded the street and swept across them both. A moment later it trundled in front of the stop, its brakes hissing like an ancient dragon.

Homura stared hard at Madoka. "Are you saying you-"

Madoka abruptly stood up, her bag flopping against her back. Homura looked up at her, and despite being a writer, could not have described the look she found on the girl's face.

"I'm sorry," Madoka stammered. "I don't know what got into me. Forget about what I said. I'll see you around, Homura."

She sprinted onto the bus, disappearing behind its tinted windows. Homura remained seated on the bench, not boarding herself. She had a feeling it would not be wise. A moment later the bus shut its doors and rolled down the road, disappearing into the darkness.

* * *

In her eighteen years of life, Madoka only recalled one time she saw her parents fight.

She was ten, too young to understand most things but old enough to recognize her ignorance. It was late at night, far past her bedtime; she was in fact asleep at the time, until she was abruptly woken by the sound of shouting downstairs.

Her eyes fluttered open. A duet of voices could be heard through her bedroom door, but it was a furious melody. Slipping out from beneath the covers, her stuffed bunny clutched against her chest, she carefully pulled the door open and made her way into the dark hall.

Madoka remembered several details of that moment very vividly. The hems of her pajama bottoms tickling her feet, the worn surface of the carpet. She stopped halfway down the stairs, her fingers clutching the railing.

"What are we supposed to do then?" Her father's voice, strained and tired. "The timing couldn't be any worse. We weren't planning for this at all."

"I know," Junko's voice replied. It sounded aggravated, aggressive. Madoka had never heard such tension in her mother's tone before. "But what's done is done. We weren't ready, and now we have to deal with the consequences."

Madoka flinched when her father slammed his hand on the table. "And how, pray tell? We don't have the money. We don't have the time. Madoka is still in elementary school. How do you propose we 'deal with the consequences?'"

"Why are you getting angry at me?" Junko snapped. "This is on both of us! You're acting like it's all my fault."

"I know it isn't your fault," her husband snapped back. "But I don't think you realize the situation we're in. We aren't ready for a second child!"

Madoka's heart skipped a beat. A second child? Did he mean…?

"Shut up!" Junko hissed. "You'll wake Madoka."

She heard her father take a deep breath. When he spoke again, it was in a more subdued tone. "What will this mean for her, too? She'll be eleven when the baby is born. It'll change her whole life, as much as it'll change ours. This baby…it'll change everything."

"Of course it will," Junko said levelly. "But it's _our_ child, Tomohisa. That's what children do. Madoka changed our lives when she was born. This baby will change our lives too. That's just how things work."

"It's doesn't have to," Tomohisa said.

There was a pregnant silence where neither of them uttered a word. Then Junko drew in a sharp breath, her nails scratching against the table.

"You've got to be joking," she snarled quietly.

"I'm not. I'm being realistic," Tomohisa corrected. "The baby is barely a month old, maybe less. The sooner we act, the better for both parties."

A chair scraped loudly against the floor as Junko shot to her feet. "I can't believe you're saying this right now."

"Well, I am," Tomohisa said. His voice was still strained, but this time with emotion. "Junko, you know our situation. Can we provide for this child the way we want to? And think about the sacrifices Madoka will have to make. In the long run, it may be for the best-"

"Go fuck yourself," Junko seethed. Something clattered against the floor. "That is _absolutely_ out of the question. You've lost your goddam mind!"

"Junko-"

"I won't stand for this."

"Junko!"

Shoes were thrown against the floor, and a doorknob turned. Madoka shuddered down to her bones when the front door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the picture frames on the wall. Her, Junko and Tomohisa, one happy family captured in a single moment of time.

She heard her father curse, then footsteps approached the stairwell.

Gasping softly, Madoka scrambled to her feet and retreated into the hall as quietly as she could, slipping back into her room. She threw herself beneath the covers, yanking them over her head and facing away from the door.

Seconds later she heard it open, and her father's long shadow loomed over the bed. She shut her eyes tightly, trying to breathe slowly like she was asleep. Her father sighed, seeming to linger by the door for a brief spell, but then he closed it. His footsteps receded from Madoka's bedroom.

Afterwards, Madoka lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling. She had never heard her mother swear before. Never had she witnessed her father lose his temper before. She had only ever known her cheerful, doting parents, two amiable and perfect beings.

She was awfully quiet during breakfast the next morning. When her parents reached out to ruffle her hair before she set out for school, she shirked away from them and slipped out the front door. Junko and Tomohisa glanced at one another as their child left them.

When she returned home that night, things were back to normal as if nothing had ever happened. And eight months later, her younger brother was born. Her parents named him Tatsuya. The kanji for his name meant, _to achieve a dream._

Madoka remembered holding him for the first time and falling in love. He was so small, so vulnerable, and yet the possibilities were endless. His father stroked Tatsuya's bald head, and Junko watched the three of them from the hospital bed. Both their faces spoke of nothing but pure, unadulterated love.

Once her mother recovered from the pregnancy, Madoka noticed that she started working much harder. Her father, meanwhile, resigned from his job and became a full time dad, taking care of the baby while also looking after his eldest.

It only occurred to her some years later that some agreement must have been made between them. Junko worked so hard that Madoka sometimes wondered if her mother actually existed, or if she had just dreamt her up in her mind. Tomohisa, meanwhile, threw himself into housework, teaching himself how to cook, how to clean, how to raise a baby essentially on his own.

When Tatsuya turned two, they moved into a bigger house that could properly fit all four of them. That was the house she lived in throughout her middle and high school years. She remembered being astounded at the size of the place; their old house had been a cramped, single story affair without a backyard.

Her mother smiled in satisfaction when she saw Madoka in awe, and slipped her hand into her husband's. Tomohisa leaned over and kissed Junko tenderly on the temple.

That house was the main reason Madoka got a job at a salon when she went off to college. By that time Junko had pretty much taken over the world, and they had no real material wants; their family had plenty of money for her to enjoy herself without working through school. But she couldn't shake the realization of how hard both her parents had worked for that money, the fights and the anguish and the hard decisions they had to face to have it. And because of that, she didn't feel entitled to that money. They were already paying for her tuition. She could take care of the rest.

And in the back of her mind, the happiness they shared in that house was always a little tainted. She never brought up what she had overheard that night with her parents. She couldn't bear to. And her father loved Tatsuya passionately. But neither could she forget that her father was more shrewd and calculating than he seemed, nor that even her invincible mother was prone to bouts of anguish.

It was a small thing, to realize one's parents were human. But Madoka knew what happened with small things. And the stranger's arm, wrapped so securely around her mother's waist, reminded Madoka of what she learned that night.

She didn't know everything about her parents. She never did.

* * *

Sayaka was on the phone when Madoka returned to their apartment.

"Honestly, you're such an idiot," the girl laughed. She was curled up on the couch, earphones plugged into her phone while she surfed the internet. "Yes, seriously! If it were me, that definitely wouldn't work."

The door rattled shut behind Madoka. Sayaka looked up and waggled her fingers at her roommate, who smiled back. "_Okay_, but in this scenario I'm your professor, and if I was your professor we wouldn't be dating. No, I am _not_ into that…Kyouko, no professor will raise your grade if you offer to grill them a steak."

Madoka smiled to herself as she walked into the kitchen, where she had some dishes left over from that morning. Their apartment was on the sixth floor; an open window by the sink admitted a cool breeze. Running some water, she began doing the dishes.

"Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow." Sayaka's voice floated over from the other room. "You've given me a craving for steak now. No, that is not an innuendo! What would that even mean? Okay. Goodnight." Madoka heard her blow a kiss before hanging up.

"Done so soon?" She asked. Sayaka leapt off the couch and appeared in the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the wall.

"Kyouko's got a grouchy roommate, apparently," the bluenette said. "Doesn't like people on the phone late. I've only been over to her place when the roommate wasn't there, too."

"So you've never met her?"

"Nope. But Kyouko says she's a real case. Doesn't talk much, leaves early and comes back late. She's convinced the chick's a serial killer."

Madoka laughed, placing a dish to the side. "I'm sure she's a very nice serial killer."

Sayaka raised her arms above her head, shrugging. Then she shook out her hair, fluffing it out. "But I gotta say, I forgot how nice it is to have hair this short! My neck can finally see what the sun looks like!"

Her roommate made a face. "I wonder who gave you such a nice haircut?"

Sayaka grinned and closed the distance between them, grabbing Madoka from behind and tickling her stomach. "My wife, of course!"

Madoka yelped, nearly dropping the dish in her hands. "Oh! Geez, Sayaka!" She pouted. "You're still saying stuff like that. You've got a girlfriend now, you know?"

Her best friend grinned and chomped her teeth next to Madoka's ear, making the girl's heart skip a beat. "Kyouko's my girlfriend. You're my _wife._"

Madoka rolled her eyes, flushing. "You're too greedy."

Despite her protests, Sayaka stayed right where she was, languidly watching her finish up the dishes. Her arms were warm around Madoka's stomach. Outside, the crickets were still chirping, as if the same family from earlier had followed her home. She wondered what Homura was doing. The girl hadn't gotten on the bus with her, for obvious reasons.

It occurred to her then that there weren't any more buses after the one she had taken. Which meant Homura might have had to walk home.

Sighing, she drowned a dish beneath the stream of water.

_I'm such an idiot._

Sayaka blinked up at her. "You alright?"

"Yeah," she said, shaking her head. "It's just…can I ask you something?"

"Always."

"If you were mad at Kyouko, I mean hypothetically…or if you were unhappy with her somehow, like she wasn't taking your relationship seriously or something…would you confront her about it?"

Sayaka blinked. "What makes you ask all of a sudden?"

Madoka turned away from her friend's searching gaze. "Nothing really. Just something I was thinking about earlier. One of the girls at the salon was complaining about her boyfriend, before you came."

"Oh." Sayaka let her go and leaned back against the counter, eyes trained on the ceiling. "Well, I'd at least talk to her about it, yeah. Communication is key, and all that. Especially with someone like Kyouko, since I know her mind works a little different that most people. Usually we're just naturally on the same page, which is also great. But if I was mad at her for something I'd tell her, and try to work it out. I'd like to think she'd do the same."

Madoka nodded. That made sense. But of course it did. What else was she expecting Sayaka to say?

"The only scenario where I wouldn't bother," her roommate added, "would be one where I don't think it'll change anything to speak up. Like, if the relationship's just a lost cause. At that point I'd just walk out, I think. Not that it'll ever come to that."

About half an hour later, Madoka lay on her bed with the lights still on, staring at the ceiling. Against her chest she held her stuffed bunny, the same one she had way back when she was ten. Its stuffing was deflated and the outer cloth was riddled with stitches, but she could never bring herself to part with it.

She thought about Homura. If she ever ran into the raven haired girl again, she would have to apologize properly. Madoka regretted saying anything at all to the girl about her mother. Their next meeting was guaranteed to be awkward.

"By the way," Sayaka had said earlier, "Kyouko and I are getting lunch this weekend. If you want, you can tag along. Finally get acquainted."

"I don't think I can do this weekend," Madoka said apologetically from the bathroom, dragging a comb through her hair.

Sayaka glanced at her from the couch. "You got plans?"

"Sort of," Madoka admitted, rubbing at her eyes. "I'm going home this weekend."

"That's fine. Some other time then," her roommate said. "Say hi to your mom for me."

* * *

**To think I kept my promise of updating weekly! God knows how long that'll last. Anyways, feedback is very much appreciated. I think I am slowly getting more comfortable in this AU as the story progresses. I will be posting the chapters as they are finished and will likely not go back to change earlier entries, so hopefully I can keep a consistent level of quality throughout.**

**Hats off in particular to FoldedHands, Redler Red7, StormFarron185 and Psykoakuma for their reviews on the first chapter! It blows my mind that we're all still here in this fandom, after so long. I still remember all of you from the Silent Melody days.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**-Banshee**


	3. Black Swan

Chapter Three - Black Swan

On Friday mornings Madoka had back to back morning lectures. She crawled out of bed, shook Sayaka awake so she wouldn't miss class, and headed out herself.

In class she paid careful attention and took diligent notes, knowing it would all come on the exam later. Once lecture was over she chatted with a couple classmates over coffee before waving goodbye, catching the bus back home right on time.

It was a picture perfect morning. But it did little to assuage her anxiety.

Her father's car pulled up to her corner around noon. She was waiting on the curb by a bench, bag filled with neatly folded clothes and other essentials slung over her shoulder. The car was a quiet electric powered thing, because Tomohisa refused to drive anything with a loud engine. It was not his goal to stand out on the road.

"Hey, papa," Madoka said as she slipped into the passenger seat. Tomohisa smiled and ruffled his daughter's hair.

"Hey, Madoka. Did you have a good week?"

The car peeled away from the curb and merged into traffic. Madoka tossed her bag into the back seat, turning to watch the streetlights crawl by.

"Tatsuya gets out of school soon," Tomohisa said. "We'll have to pick him up on the way back."

Madoka nodded wordlessly. That same anxiety gnawed at her insides, sharpening its teeth against her guts. She didn't know if she ought to bring up what she had seen with her father. She was too afraid of the potential consequences.

"You alright?" Tomohisa asked, casting a sidelong glance. "You're awfully quiet today."

Madoka shook her head, keeping her cheek pressed against the window. "Sorry, it's just been a long week. Lots of studying, and all that."

Her father hummed in understanding. As they drove, the spring heat seeped through the window and lulled her into a light doze. The occasional click of her father's turn signal and the soft hum of the electric engine put her under. At some point she felt the car pull to a stop, her father's door opening and falling shut.

Stirring awake, Madoka rubbed at her eyes and yawned. A moment later it occurred to her that they were parked in a lot somewhere, not in front of Tatsuya's school.

Glancing out the driver's side window, she saw her father return with something in his hand. A cone of ice cream. Strawberry vanilla, her favorite.

"A little reward for making it through a hard week," he said, handing it to her. "I know it's your favorite."

Madoka nodded as she ate the ice cream, twirling it against her tongue. She felt like a little kid again. The guilt gnawed at her with renewed gusto.

Tatsuya was sitting cross legged by the school gate when the car pulled up next to him. He had his nose buried in a book as big as his torso. Class had just let out, and dozens of kids were streaming out past the gate; Madoka had to strain to catch sight of her brother.

"Tatsuya!" She called out, waving a hand. The boy glanced up, saw his sister, and snapped the book shut before running over to the car.

Tatsuya didn't talk much lately. He was seven now, and a couple years ago he had become an extremely avid reader. Madoka was happy for this, of course, but she did miss how energetic and fun her kid brother used to be. Somewhere in the back of her mind she had assumed he would always be like that.

The drive home was quiet, as Tatsuya went back to reading his huge book. Once they were home Tomohisa made them both a late lunch, roast beef sandwiches with tomatoes plucked fresh from the garden out back. Afterwards he retired to his room to take a nap, complaining of lightheadedness. He had developed low blood pressure a couple years ago, and it made him lethargic around the middle of the day.

Madoka wandered into the backyard, sitting on the wooden porch with Tatsuya placed between her legs. She linked her arms around his small stomach, which he didn't seem to mind. The boy was still absorbed by his book, which he had laid open across his lap.

"What are you reading today?" She asked him, peeking over his shoulder.

Tatsuya closed the book to show her the cover, not that she really recognized it at all. She wasn't much of a reader. It brought back memories of her awkward encounter with Homura, which she tried to suppress.

"Do you like reading that much?" Madoka asked, squeezing her brother.

"Mmm. It's fun."

"What makes a story interesting, in your opinion?"

Tatsuya made it a couple pages before answering. "Dragons."

She didn't imagine Homura would be satisfied with that.

A bird chirped somewhere in the trees. Inhaling deeply, she pressed her nose against her brother's hair and thought about how he almost hadn't existed in the first place.

Madoka heard the front door open, and her heart skipped a beat.

Her mother was home.

* * *

Junko Kaname's car was a far cry from her husband's. It was sleek and compact, really designed to hold two at most. The paint job was the same sleek grey of a lynx at night, and the engine purred like it was on the hunt.

Madoka had never really liked riding in that car, because the loudness of it tended to attract attention. That sort of thing was always a little embarrassing to her.

She was waiting by the door when the car pulled into their driveway, holding Tatsuya's hand. When the car door popped open Tatsuya slipped free and ran towards it, his hands outstretched.

"Mama!"

"Oh!" Junko exclaimed, as she was pummeled by her seven year old. She was in her dark business suit, an outfit unnervingly similar to the one Madoka had seen her in on Wednesday. "Hey, Tatsuya. Did you miss me?"

The boy simply pressed his face into his mother's front. She smiled and took his hand, leading them to the door. The car beeped behind her.

"Hey, Madoka," she said, reaching out with her free hand. "How have you been?"

Madoka closed her eyes as Junko ruffled her hair. It took all her willpower to not shirk away, as she did all those years ago.

The door closed behind them, and Tatsuya went off to find his book. Madoka followed her mother into her study, also making sure to close this door behind her.

Junko sighed loudly as she flopped into her desk chair, spinning lazily around in a half circle. Madoka steadied the chair and helped her mother out of her blazer, folding it over her arm.

"Long day?" Madoka asked.

"Long half day," Junko said. "I have to head out in another hour or so. Why couldn't I be this popular in high school?"

Her daughter smiled. "You weren't worth seven bazillion dollars in high school."

"Eight bazillion," Her mother corrected. Madoka scoffed.

The study was a cramped, but orderly space. A desk placed across from the door was occupied by a large desktop computer and several leaflets of notes and documents, placed in neat piles. A small twin sized bed was placed against the wall for those long nights spent on the phone, after which Junko did not wish to disturb her husband's sleep.

Junko turned to log into the desktop, opening a calendar app that displayed her schedule for the rest of the week, which she checked briefly before minimizing.

"Papa's asleep," Madoka said, taking a seat on the bed. "His usual nap. Did you want to say hi to him?"

Junko shook her head, waving a manicured hand. "No, that's alright. Let him sleep. Once you get to our age, falling asleep takes forever. And waking up is even harder."

Her daughter made a face. "You aren't that old."

"I'm old enough to be your mother, Madoka."

Madoka squeezed the fabric of the blazer between her fingers. It was clean but well worn, one of her mother's favorites. She could trace back its feel and scent to her toddler years, when she was the one hugging Junko when she finally returned from work. Back then, a blazer was enough to sum up everything her mother was, in her world.

"How was your week?" She asked, keeping her eyes trained on the blazer. "Any interesting stories?"

Junko hummed, tipping her head back on her chair. "It's hard to say what's interesting and what's aggravating at this point…I have two clients trying to make a joint investment in some real estate at the moment, but they can't agree on the mutual stakes. One party _refuses_ to put up more than forty percent, while the other capped themselves at fifty five. Which, as I am sure you know, does not add up to a hundred."

"Why can't they just do fifty fifty? Wouldn't that be fair?"

Her mother blew her bangs out of her eyes. "Well…there are reasons. Good reasons, I'll admit. It's complicated stuff."

Madoka did not press the issue. She knew Junko thought she was too young to understand. They had been over it many times before. "So nothing much other than that?"

Junko waved at her phone. "Other than the astounding amount of membership points I'm racking up at the cafe across the street, not really. Why, were you expecting something better?"

Madoka forced a smile, shaking her head. "No, just wondering."

The woman shook her own head, spinning around in her chair. "I'm sure your life is much more interesting than mine, darling. You're in college now! Your life must be filled with bad boys and late nights out."

Madoka blushed. "You know I don't do that kind of stuff!"

Junko smiled affectionately, rolling over on her chair and cupping her daughter's cheek with her palm. "I know. No matter how old you get, you're still my same little Madoka."

The pinkette stared into the woman's deep mahogany eyes. Just as she was about to muster the courage to say something more, a phone rang.

"Ugh. That's the bad ringtone," Junko muttered, digging around in her pocket. She tossed aside her personal phone and palmed her business one, answering it. "Hello? Yes, I'm here…What? I thought that was taken care of already?"

The woman shook her head, rising from her seat. Madoka made to leave the study to give her privacy, but her mother waved her back down and headed for the door herself. She opened the door and disappeared down the hall, her voice settling into something more razor sharp and predatory.

"I'm afraid my client does not have the assets nor the willingness to do that. As we discussed, the terms of the investment are not…"

The door shut, and Madoka fell back onto the bed, sprawled out on her back. The sheets were laced with her mother's comforting scent. A pair of heels were lined up at the foot of the bed, shoes Madoka could never hope to fill.

How easy it had been to pretend that nothing was wrong, that everything was just has it should be. She supposed the older one got, the easier it became to push bad thoughts to the side, to ignore them.

Her ears detected a low hum reverberating throughout the room.

It was then that she realized her mother's computer was still logged in.

In retrospect, that was the beginning of the unraveling of everything she understood about herself.

Slipping off the bed, Madoka fell into the desk chair and rolled up to the computer. With a trembling hand she grabbed the mouse and clicked, opening up the app her mother had minimized moments earlier.

Junko Kaname's entire schedule popped up before her eyes.

Madoka did not consider herself shrewd, or overtly practical. But she understood immediately in that moment that she had to act quickly.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of the calendar before minimizing the app.

A moment later the door opened, and Junko returned from her call. She found her daughter sprawled out on her bed, thumbing absently through her phone.

"Looks like they need me back at the office," Junko sighed. She walked over to the computer and shut it off, pushing the chair back in. "Don't wait for me; have dinner amongst yourselves. Tell your father for me, would you?"

Madoka nodded, and walked her mother to the front door. She waved as the sleek jaguar-like car pulled out of their driveway and rumbled away down the street.

Only when the engine was far, far away could Madoka hear the rapid thumping of her own heart.

_What did I just do?_

* * *

Madoka did not look at the photo of her mother's schedule for two full days. She wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't…In fact she came rather close to just deleting it, and pretending that it had never existed in the first place.

But she didn't. Instead the photo sat in her phone, brooding, festering. Madoka went through the rest of Friday and all of Saturday without looking at it. She helped out around the house, throwing herself into it with such gusto that her father had virtually nothing left to do. She made Tatsuya's lunch and dusted the house, then got three lectures ahead on all her classes.

"If you keep this up, your mother will divorce me and marry you instead," Tomohisa complained. Madoka laughed, albeit forcefully.

She wished she could stretch her ignorance for all eternity. But as it turned out, eternity is fleeting.

On Sunday, Tomohisa took Tatsuya to the museum. That left Madoka to sit on her bed alone, staring at her phone.

She had come to terms with the fact that she could not continue to run from this. Madoka couldn't rest until she knew for sure what she had seen that day. But at the same time, she could not bring herself to confront Junko directly. She could only imagine how much it would hurt her mother to hear such a question, if indeed it wasn't true.

Before her lay a method to verify the truth without direct confrontation.

The photo was off center and slightly blurry, the calendar obscured by those odd waves that showed up when you took a photo of a computer screen. Nevertheless, Madoka zoomed in and was able to discern her mother's schedule for the next couple weeks. A board meeting on Friday. Lunch with an executive yesterday.

And today…

Junko had blocked out the entirety of her morning with a simple commitment named "work," which Madoka assumed meant she would be in the office. After this, however, she had a lunch scheduled with someone named Ushikawa. There was no given name; it was impossible to tell whether the appointment was with someone male or female.

The location was simply listed as "The Terrace." But Madoka knew the place; it was a rooftop restaurant situated upon one of downtown Mitakihara's glittering skyscrapers, a popular gathering spot for social functions. Madoka had briefly attended a corporate event there as a child, something to do with a new division opening beneath the company.

The lunch was scheduled to begin in an hour.

She decided then, quietly and internally, that this would be the one time she would ever do something like this. Even if her mother truly was up to something, and she just happened to be innocent just for today, Madoka didn't care. She would rather see that and rest easy, convincing herself that there was nothing to worry about.

But she had to see it first.

In her room she had a pair of binoculars, stuffed unceremoniously into the closet; she and her father would often go stargazing when she was younger, but those days were long past now. Rising from her bed, Madoka dug the binoculars out and threw them into her bag.

Scribbling a note about meeting a friend for her father, Madoka walked gingerly out the front door.

* * *

The Terrace was located atop one of Mitakihara's most highly rated hotels, the _Midoriiro. _It was a lithe, elegant building, its exterior coated in dark glass that seemed to glint a soft seaweed green in the sunlight. The front entrance had its own drive through loop, which was manned by several bellhops clad in black uniforms with gold trim and white gloves. From Madoka's memory, the interior was graced with more soft whites and golds; it had always reminded her of sunrise of a snowy mountain.

Across from the _Midoriiro_ was a building of equal height, a large shopping complex that had been erected to please the expensive tastes of the hotel's residents. It was filled with high-end outlets and designer clothes, things Madoka occasionally fancied buying but never really would.

At the very top of this shopping complex was a rooftop garden, a quiet sun filled space lined with rose bushes and gently painted benches. Students of the university often came here on dates, murmuring lovingly to one another as they watched the world slide by beneath them.

But Madoka was not here on a date. Although it was very possible she was about to witness one.

The binoculars dug painfully into her back as she slipped through the crowd, making her way past the stores and towards the elevators. Everyone was walking much too slowly for her taste; or perhaps it was just her anxiety, urging her to walk faster. Middle school kids chatted over coffee, and young couples strolled with linked arms. The colloquialness of it all almost angered her; did they not understand what was about to happen?

But of course they didn't. No one did, not even her.

The air inside the shopping complex was suffocating. She was almost glad to emerge out onto the open air of the rooftop garden, where the sun was beating down. The elevator doors slid open and she darted outside, her bag clutched in her hands.

The garden was crowded per usual, but Madoka found a bench at the far end that was relatively void of anyone nearby. Plunking her bag down, she walked over to the railing and peeked over it.

There; across from the shopping complex was the _Midoriiro_, and on top of it, The Terrace. From the garden she had a clear view of the restaurant, which had all its seats out in the open. Only the kitchen and some VIP sections were housed indoors. From here she could see a wide open space scattered with round tables topped by white tablecloths; waiters in tuxedo vests patrolled the floor, hands folded behind their backs.

Madoka retreated from the railing until the bench hit the backs of her knees, sitting down nervously. She knew of this spot because of an ice cream date she had with her friends last semester. At the time all she thought was that it was a neat little place to enjoy a strawberry vanilla.

The sun was intense. She had come in a hat and some clothes she rarely wore; there was almost zero chance her mother would be able to recognize her from this distance, but she was taking no chances.

Pulling the binoculars out from her bag, she waited.

* * *

Homura was thinking about death when she saw someone she thought she recognized.

In downtown Mitakihara there was a park that she frequented, despite it being a ways away from campus. It was a big city, even by city standards, and it often took her about half an hour by subway to get to the park.

But she loved being there. She had spent the entire weekend studying, because she was attending the university on a full scholarship, and the aid was contingent upon her grades being at a certain level.

She walked out of the library that afternoon feeling fried in the head. One latte and a train ride later, she was sitting in her favorite park. It was small, with only a single winding path through a tight knot of trees. But it was quiet, because it was near the water and far from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the city; one of the most inescapable things in a big city is the constant noise, of cars and people and a restless world which will not sleep, for fear of missing out.

Homura sipped at her latte as she sat. She thought about her writing, or perhaps the lack of it. But she soon grew tired of that, and her thoughts turned to her strange encounter with Kaname Madoka, the girl from the library.

The pinkette had gotten on the last bus that night, so Homura was forced to rent a bike from the school and pedal home. It was free, as it was a service provided by the university to the students, but her calves were not appreciative of this at all.

It was so strange, what Madoka had said. Was the girl's mother involved in an extramarital affair? Homura genuinely had no idea. The way Madoka had said it, like it was a silly, laughable thing, left too much room for interpretation. Perhaps if her own parents were still around, she would have asked them about it.

The thought made her smile wryly. Crushing her empty latte cup in her hand, she threw it away and left the park.

It didn't take long for the city noise to swallow her again. Hundreds of thousands of people, so numerous that they became faceless. The downtown skyscrapers loomed, a constant reminder of how small and insignificant she was.

No matter what the truth was, she was unlikely to ever see Kaname Madoka again. And in any case, it was none of her business. Her parents would have told her the exact same thing.

The nearest subway entrance was in the center of a square surrounded by several skyscrapers, all housing prominent financial firms. The men and women filing in and out of the entrance were all dressed impeccably in business formal attire; she saw more briefcases than unbuttoned collars.

So when the man caught Homura's eye, it wasn't because of what he was wearing.

No, it was one of those things, a feeling that seizes the heart before the mind can react. The sense of sudden familiarity, like she had seen his face somewhere before.

A sleek gray cab pulled up to the street by the station, and out stepped a middle aged man in a crisp black suit. Homura stopped with one foot on the first step of the station entrance, turning her head to look.

The man was tall, with a slender, almost lanky body. As he bent over to speak briefly to the cab driver, Homura saw thick hair that was swept back with gel, a few touches of gray gracing the edges. When he stood she saw a strong brow and an elegant nose, as well as impeccable posture.

All of this transpired within just a few moments. Soon enough the cab pulled away and the man began walking alongside the street, quickly blending into the crowd of suits.

Homura didn't have time to figure out what it was she had just seen. Her feet moved first, and suddenly she was following the man through the crowd, keeping her eyes fixed on the head with thick swept back hair and graying ends.

Who was he? She had seen his face somewhere before, she was certain of it. Homura bobbed and weaved through the crowd, throwing out an elbow or two and earning a couple curses thrown her way. But she managed to keep up with the man, following him for five blocks before she saw him leave the sidewalk.

Homura grunted as she pushed her way out of the mass of flesh; it was lunch hour and everyone and their grandmother's dog was out and about. With one last push, she broke free, stumbling out in front of a building.

She looked up just in time to see the man disappear inside the front entrance of the _Midoriiro. _He simply waved at the bellhop manning the door, who seemed to nod as if he knew him.

Homura walked up to the door, standing on the other side of the drive through loop. There was no way she was getting in there; even if she could act like she had a reservation (which she did not and probably never would), she was in a shirt and shorts.

Cursing, she turned away from the entrance, and from the suspicious bellhop giving her stares. She left the drive through loop, and was about to give up and go home when she saw another familiar face.

A small pink head, moving hurriedly into the shopping complex across the street.

_Madoka?_

* * *

Her breath caught in her throat when a small purple head appeared on the rooftop.

Grabbing her binoculars, Madoka peered across the street. Her heart clenched painfully when she confirmed that it was in fact her mother; she emerged from within the building and walked out onto the Terrace, dressed formally with makeup. Through the circular view of the binoculars Madoka followed her path, watching tensely as the woman took her seat at a freshly set table by the railing.

Madoka was sweating beneath her clothes, but she wasn't sure if it was due to the afternoon heat. From here she could see everything; her mother's face, scrunched slightly as she surveyed the menu. The silverware sparkled beneath the sunlight. A waiter spoke with her briefly, then returned with a glass of still water.

Taking a deep breath, Madoka took a moment to calm herself down. She hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary yet. Junko's schedule had dictated that she would be here. She checked her phone; five minutes to the hour. Madoka set her binoculars aside for the time being.

Two minutes later, a man she did not recognize emerged onto the rooftop.

Madoka's hands trembled as she lifted the binoculars to her eyes. Her blood roared in her ears; she could acutely hear her own heartbeat, like it was trying to tell her something. Every inch of her wanted to get up and chuck the binoculars over the railing and just _go home,_ but she remained rooted in place.

The man was of middling height, with a pale complexion and small eyes. He was rather old; his hair was snow white and mostly gone. Only a small ring of it clung to the edges of his scalp. His suit, though ill fitting, was crisp and clearly of high quality.

He greeted Junko amiably, and the two shook hands before he took a seat across from her.

So this must be Ushikawa.

Was it him? Could he be the one? Thinking back to that day at the salon, Madoka had never quite caught a good glimpse of the strange man. Only the memory of his arm, wrapped around her mother's waist, was burned into her memory. From his appearances, this Ushikawa was rather wealthy; had he invited Junko to the roof of the _Midoriiro_ to steal a quiet afternoon away together?

Ushikawa sat with one arm placed on the table. Junko sat with her hands folded in her lap. They began to converse, though about what she could not say; Madoka was not able to read lips very well. If only she could tell what they were saying! Her fingers clenched the binoculars so hard they hurt, her teeth digging painfully into her lower lip.

The waiter returned, and the two patrons placed their orders. The Terrace was relatively empty aside from the two of them; only three other tables were occupied, none near the two of them.

Afterwards they resumed their conversation. Ushikawa seemed to enjoy gesticulating as he spoke; his wrinkled hand chopped softly at the table several times. The food was brought out with surprising swiftness; a spaghetti for Ushikawa, a fusilli for Junko. The old man chewed thoughtfully as the woman said her own piece, nodding occasionally.

Madoka observed them in this manner for about half an hour, during which time she saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. At the end of the meal Ushikawa reached for his wallet, but Junko held her hand out. The two of them rose from their seats and shook hands once more, before Ushikawa departed from the scene.

Relief exploded across Madoka's chest when she saw Ushikawa leave. It had been a very brief meeting; she presumed he was staying somewhere in the hotel. So it really was all just a misunderstanding! Breathing out heavily, she set her binoculars aside and closed her eyes, pressing her palms against them.

She was so glad. She was so, so glad. It was just a mistake, what she had seen that day at the salon! A trick of the light perhaps, or a confusion created by the shifting of the crowds. She felt euphoric, almost giddy; a small laugh escaped from her lips.

Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. Only then did Madoka notice that Junko was still seated at her table.

Not a moment later, another man emerged onto the rooftop.

Her body reacted before her brain did; she felt like she was going to throw up. Swallowing thickly, she hunched over and watched in dread, too woozy to retrieve the binoculars. Even without them she could see how tall the man was; he was in a suit that was tailored exactly to his proportions, very much unlike Ushikawa's.

Junko looked up as the man approached, and he took the seat that Ushikawa had occupied only moments prior. He leaned forward to say something to Junko, and Madoka saw her mother finally take her hands out of her lap and lean forward herself.

Only then did she pick up the binoculars.

What she witnessed then sent her entire world crashing down around her.

The man reaching across the table and taking Junko's hand. Junko smiling as he said something she found amusing. Her saying something back, lips curved mischievously. How close their heads were, bent towards one another like black swans dancing on a lake. His thick, swept back hair and graying ends, the unfathomable depth of his eyes; the emotion in Junko's own irises, which Madoka found to be even more incomprehensible.

The waiter returned with the check, which Junko paid. He gave them a strange look as he walked away. Junko turned back to the man and cupped her chin in her hand, looking at him in a way that…why, _why was she looking at him like that?_

She felt like crying. A dry sob lumped up in her throat but no tears were forthcoming. To weep would be to acknowledge the reality laid out before her. This couldn't be real. It must be a dream; but what dream was this vivid, this realistic? In what dream could the agony she felt now be so visceral, so real? Her head throbbed; the binoculars shook in her heads, rattling her view of the rooftop.

"Madoka?"

She cried out, flinching as she dropped the binoculars. Whirling around, she saw Homura standing behind the bench.

The raven haired girl stared at her, a frown etched into her face. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

Madoka's jaw quivered, but no sound came out. Without warning her head was gripped by a wave of nausea; she moaned and clutched her head between her hands, hiding it in her lap.

Homura's eyes fell upon the binoculars sitting on the floor, then at the rooftop of the _Midoriiro_ across the street. Stooping down, she raised them to her face and peered across the street.

She saw him, the lanky man with the swept back hair, sitting with a woman she didn't recognize. He had his chin resting on top of his hand, a languid smile on his face.

Only then did she finally realize who he was.

"Oh my god," she murmured.

As she watched, the waiter returned with a paid check. The two rose from their seats and prepared to depart from the building.

"They're leaving the hotel," Homura said to herself. She turned to the shell shocked girl sitting beside her. "Madoka, they're leaving the building. If we move now, we can catch up with them."

Madoka was unresponsive. She had her face in her hands, but her eyes were wide open, stretched to almost impossible lengths but seeing nothing.

Homura grabbed the girl by the wrists and yanked her into a standing position, catching her when she almost fell over. "Madoka, listen to me. That's your mother, isn't it? I can tell. Listen, if you don't move now, you might regret it for the rest of your life."

The words seemed to make it through to the girl, who blinked. Moving as if in a daze, Madoka stumbled away from Homura and towards the elevators.

After making sure the girl wasn't going to fall over, Homura turned back to the railing. Taking out her phone, she held it up and zoomed in on the rooftop across the street.

It wasn't as powerful as a pair of binoculars, but these days phones were plenty good enough for her to see the couple's faces very clearly. Zooming in a bit further, Homura made sure the camera was properly focused on those faces.

The picture she took caught them in an intimate moment, his arm wrapped around her waist.

Madoka was waiting for the elevator. Homura took her hand and pulled them past the doors, jabbing at the button for the first floor. The ride down was agonizing; neither of them said a word, and Madoka just stared at the floor, a hollow look in her pale eyes.

The doors opened and Homura pulled them both out, past the stores and out onto the street. As they emerged she spotted the couple in the drive through loop of the _Midoriiro_, saying goodbye to a bellhop. Homura checked the traffic briefly before diving into the street, weaving through cars jam packed bumper to bumper. Madoka's fingers were loose in her hand, but she followed nonetheless. The heat of the asphalt rose up and seared their flesh; the crowds seethed about them.

The couple began walking down the length of the block. Homura followed them intently, careful not to get too close lest she be discovered. She tailed them for two blocks before they turned a corner at a bus stop, entering a small side street where the crowds were significantly thinner.

There, hidden beneath the shadow of an awning, the same sleek gray cab from earlier was waiting. Homura stopped at the corner and hid, shoving Madoka behind her. The couple stopped by the car to speak to one another briefly. Holding her phone around the edge of the corner, Homura took another photo.

A bus rolled up to the stop next to them and let out its passengers. A thick knot of people spilled out onto the sidewalk, pouring down into the side street. Homura left the corner and pulled Madoka behind her, making sure to hide herself in the crowd. She had to get closer. She had to be sure…

The crowd parted for a brief moment, and she was ready. By now the man had gotten into the cab, and was speaking to the woman through a rolled down window. He held out his hand to her, which the woman took.

This time Homura's photo captured him planting a chaste kiss upon that hand, his eyes closed and oblivious to the rest of the world.

Behind her, Homura felt Madoka look up. And in that moment the girl saw it, the foreign lips she did not know pressed against her mother's flesh, the flesh that had conceived and borne her, the flesh that had kissed her and said it loved her, flesh against flesh, the undeniable flesh of the truth.

Her mind flew back to the summer she first turned twelve. The Steinway broke loose from its chains and hurtled down, and this time she wasn't lucky, this time she couldn't escape the inevitable.

The world spun around her, and she fainted on the spot.

_"Madoka!"_

* * *

**Well, this story is finally up and running now. That makes three weeks in a row that I've stuck to the upload schedule, we'll see how long this streak lasts...**

**Feedback is greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading!**

**-Banshee**


	4. Inspiration

Chapter Four - Inspiration

Madoka remembered the first time she stepped foot inside the _Midoriiro._

She was sixteen, and her mother had just been promoted. The circumstances surrounding the promotion, or what this would entail for her mother, she could not say; Madoka was routinely kept in the dark about such things. Partly because she never asked, and partly because she knew it would do her no good to ask.

The building was tall, a monument to wealth and prestige so great it became nebulous; she remembered how long the elevator ride to the roof took. She wore a formal white top with a black skirt; the men in the elevator with her were in full suits, and she recalled feeling particularly adolescent.

The elevator doors opened to the rooftop Terrace, and a foreign universe sucked her in. It was night and the venue burned with a thousand electric lights. Dozens of men and women, corporate creatures, mingled amongst themselves. Some held wine glasses and spoke in tight, impenetrable circles; others spoke over tablecloths white as snow.

She felt disoriented. Memories from that time came only in brief snatches. Random people walking up to shake her hand, claiming that they had worked very closely with her mother. They spoke of things Madoka had no idea about. It occurred to her that these people, whose faces blended together into one monolithic enigma, had spent more time with her mother in the last five years than she or her father had.

_A stunning leader…wonderfully capable…so blessed. So blessed._

So blessed. She caught sight of her mother at the far side the Terrace, but she was stuck in a tight knot of suits and Madoka was too afraid to enter that world with her. She spent some time at the bar, though she couldn't order anything, instead sitting with her back facing the tender and watching the heaving, unfathomable crowd.

_You must have great admiration for your mother, young lady. Our company has recently expanded into financial advisory. I can think of no one better to head the division than Ms. Kaname._

She did not remember the faceless man who said that to her at the bar. But she did remember not knowing what to say in response. In the end she left the bar and sought out her mother, finally managing to catch her alone.

"Oh, Madoka. Are you enjoying the party?"

"I guess. It's interesting. What exactly were you promoted to? What kind of work will you be doing? I just met a lot of random people…"

"Well…it's rather complicated. Don't worry about that stuff; that's my job. Why don't you go find your father? I need to speak with a few more people. He's over there, I think they're going to start a dance circle soon…"

There had always been a barrier of ignorance between Madoka and Junko Kaname. She knew nothing about the woman beyond her identity as a mother. These men and women, with their high collars and fancy terms, knew things about Junko that Madoka could only imagine.

She wandered through the crowd and found Tomohisa, who was chatting with a stranger. The dance began; those who did not wish to participate fled quickly from the circle. The band that the company had hired for the night began to play, a languid tune that threatened to convince her everything was alright. Her father took her hand and they began to waltz, round and round, until the army of electric lights blurred out into lines, long, long lines that led nowhere and came from nothing.

* * *

When Madoka opened her eyes, she was not alone.

It was later in the afternoon, though not quite twilight; it seemed she hadn't been out for very long. She was sitting on a bench beneath the sun, blinded by its rays. The first thing she saw was a stone tiled path, worn and faded beneath her shoes.

Shielding her eyes, she looked up.

She was by the river. A stone running path snaked alongside the water, separated from it by a high metal railing. The river was vast and glittered beneath the afternoon sunlight; she could see small boats darting about on its surface, like mayflies over a pond. A group of children played together on a patch of grass nearby, their shrill squeals echoing over to the bench.

A slender raven haired girl appeared in the corner of her vision, carrying two canned drinks in her hands. She saw that Madoka had regained consciousness and walked over to the bench.

"Hey," Homura said. "How are you feeling?"

Madoka's lips parted with some difficulty. "I…" Her throat felt parched.

Homura sat down beside her and handed her one of the drinks after popping it open for her. Madoka accepted it, murmuring her thanks, before tipping her head back and letting it slide down her throat. A cool, peachy flavor, not too sweet. Some sort of iced tea maybe; it rejuvenated her somewhat, and she set the can down with a sigh.

The girl next to her sipped a bit more conservatively from her own drink. "Sorry I wasn't here when you came to. I grabbed these from that vending machine over there. And besides, I was getting a bit tired of having your head on my shoulder."

Madoka flushed gently, biting her lip and looking away from the other girl. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. My take on a joke. You know that bus that stopped right next to us? When you collapsed, I grabbed you and jumped on it. Couldn't think of anything else to do. It let us off here. So don't feel bad, it's not like I had to carry you all the way here or anything."

They sat in silence. The little boats in the distance danced across the surface of the river. The sun was a big rippling circle of white painted over the water; from here it looked like the boats were floating over some big white abyss, borne upon some mysterious magic.

Madoka turned her drink over and over in her hands. It was cold and helped to numb her into thoughtlessness. She craved that void in her mind, reveled in it; she didn't want to think, to remember.

Homura, to her credit, said nothing. She simply waited, downing the rest of her drink. Madoka envied her calm demeanor. She seemed relaxed, confident, and yet those forest-like eyes were still so deep, so unfathomable.

In the end, Madoka was the one to break the silence.

"You saw what I saw back there, didn't you?" Madoka asked. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, on the floating magic boats. "It wasn't a misunderstanding. You saw it too."

"I did," Homura agreed. She cast Madoka a sidelong glance. "Although I probably feel differently about it than you do."

Her heart squeezed. "How did you find me? How did you know I was there?"

"I saw you from across the street. It took me a little while to find you, because I didn't think you'd be on the roof. But I felt like I had to. You looked worried."

Worried. Was that the right word for it?

She turned to watch the kids that were nearby. Two boys and girl, no more than five or six, chasing each other around in circles on the grass. She heard their adolescent shrieks of laughter. Between their youthful dance, and the boats dancing above the abyss behind her, she felt trapped. It took her back to that night on top of the _Midoriiro_, the waltz she was both present and not present for at once.

"You know, my mama…my mother…Junko, her name is Junko. I'd always thought she was a very simple person," Madoka said. Homura watched her quietly. "I never really thought that much about who she really was, or what I might not know. Junko, you see, my mother…she works very hard, she lives hard. She does everything one hundred percent. And she's strong, and so kind, and she always knows the answer to everything. That's Junko. I always wanted to be just like her, at least a little bit, when I grew up. You'd look up to her too, Homura. I bet you would. She always knows the answer to everything."

She squeezed her half empty can. The aluminum gave beneath the pressure, slowly but surely.

"But you know what?" She said, looking down at her shoes. "If I went home right now, if I walked into her study and told her what I just saw, and if I asked her if it was true…do you think she would know the right answer? I don't even know if there is a right answer."

The tears had taken a while to come, but come they did. They fell silently, thin, weak tears. She turned and hid her face in Homura's shoulder, too ashamed to show it to the world. The raven hair girl stiffened, but then relaxed, raising a hand to stroke Madoka's hair gently.

The children continued to play, their screams piercing the white abyss of the water, oblivious to the world.

* * *

Once Madoka had composed herself she stood up and started walking away from the river. Homura followed her, unsure of what would happen next.

When they reached the station the pinkette turned and surprised Homura by grabbing her wrist. Her eyes were wide pools, but not difficult to read.

"I have to head home," she said. "My dad and brother, they'll be waiting. But I can't go back alone. Not yet. You're the only one. The only one who knows about…all this."

Homura stared into those rather fathomable eyes and found herself to be fascinated. It was not often that she took an interest in such things. She rarely ever did. But today, and the events that had transpired today, compelled her to act contrary to how she typically would have.

"I'll come with you," she said, and they descended into the station together.

The train ride back was subdued. They chose a car that had no one else in it, aside from a homeless man who was asleep in the far corner. Madoka sat close next to Homura on the train seat.

As the stops blurred by outside the window, Madoka talked about Junko. She told stories, she said things that Homura had no choice but to believe. How she was an extremely capable professional, the breadwinner of the household. Feared and respected by many, even the powerful. A reliable mother. Wise, yet understanding. Madoka had gone through life putting Junko Kaname on a pedestal.

She talked throughout the entire train ride, and Homura patiently listened. The anecdotes kept coming, like the girl thought she could force away the terrible thing she had seen today with them. She clutched Homura's wrist the whole way, consciously or not the girl did not know, but she allowed it.

The Kaname residence was a modestly posh, sprawling affair with a white exterior and glass finish. Homura admired how impeccably maintained the front yard was as Madoka led them to the door, ringing it after a moment's hesitation.

Warm lights were on inside, and the door was answered promptly. A kind looking man with ruffled hair appeared, a spatula clutched in one hand.

"Oh, Madoka!" The man, presumably the girl's father, said. "You're finally back. Where were you?"

"Just out and about," Madoka said, stammering slightly. The man tilted his head, but before he could inquire his daughter stepped aside, revealing Homura. "This is the friend I said I was meeting. Papa, this is Akemi Homura. I know it's sudden, but…can she stay for dinner?"

Homura bowed her head slightly. "It's nice to meet you. I apologize for intruding on such short notice."

Madoka's father raised his eyebrows, waving the spatula around aggressively. "Oh no, no trouble at all! Madoka's friends are always welcome at our home. Please, do come in! Dinner is almost ready. Tomohisa Kaname. A pleasure."

He vanished from the door to allow them inside, hurrying back to the kitchen. The two girls stepped past the door, pulling off their shoes. The interior of the house was just as meticulously clean as the outside suggested; it seemed Tomohisa Kaname was no slump when it came to running a household.

"Dining room's this way!" Tomohisa's voice floated from down the hall.

As they made to follow it, a small figure appeared from a room that branched off from the hall. A young boy, with his nose buried in a book.

"Tatsuya, your big sis is home!" Madoka sang, kneeling down and hugging him.

The young boy glanced up from the page he was on, snapped the book shut, and wordlessly gave his sister a hug before returning to the story.

"He's been really into reading lately," the pinkette laughed, holding her brother around his midsection. "Come on, Tatsuya. It's my friend, Homura! Say hello."

Tatsuya looked up long enough to bow his head, and Homura returned the gesture. As her gaze shifted downward, she noticed that though Madoka seemed to be acting more normal, her hands were shaking around her brother's body.

"Nice to meet you," Homura said, though she opted not to kneel. She had always hated when adults did that when she was his age. "So you like books? I'm an avid reader myself."

Tatsuya looked up. "Really?"

"Yes, quite. I write as well, though I'm not published yet. Maybe you'll read one of my books one day. What do you think makes a story interesting, Tatsuya?"

"Dragons," the boy said very seriously.

"I see," Homura said. "I'll keep that in mind."

Dinner was hamburger steak served with fried vegetables and rice. The food was delicious; Tomohisa served it with a precision and ease that made it clear how used to it he had become. The four of them sat in a tight circle around the table, Tatsuya next to Tomohisa, Madoka next to Homura, who was in Junko's usual spot.

"The food is wonderful, Mr. Kaname," Homura said.

The man sitting across from her laughed. "Well, thanks! I would hope I learned a thing or two after all these years at the stove. Also, feel free to call me Tomohisa. You're a grown lady after all, as much an adult as Madoka here…so tell me, how did you two meet? As it turns out, you're the first college friend she's brought home, believe it or not."

Homura saw Madoka clench her fork through the corner of her eye; she assumed the girl was not a good liar, and probably hadn't thought this far ahead. Fortunately, she made up fake stories for a hobby.

"We had a class together last semester," she said. "Though it was a large lecture, and we didn't officially meet until exam season. The test was a bit too difficult to tackle alone."

Tomohisa hummed. "So, have you decided what you're studying yet? Madoka is still undeclared, though she has plenty of time to figure it out."

"Economics," Homura said. "Though I would like to be a writer. But I understand that most of us still hold day jobs. I don't expect to be any exception."

"A writer, huh? And economics! Aren't you an impressive young lady. I studied marketing myself, but of course I don't work anymore…Madoka, please don't turn out like your old man when you get older. I'd much prefer you grow up to be like your mother."

Homura put on a fake smile, though she made sure to wrinkle her eyes too so that it looked more genuine. She heard Madoka laugh beside her, but beneath the table she felt the girl clutch her knee.

The rest of the meal passed without much incident. Homura was forced to lie a few more times, namely about what they were doing together and where. But they were simple, flexible lies. She often wrote such things into her stories, in case she felt like she needed to change something later.

"Thank you very much for dinner, Tomohisa," Homura said. Tatsuya leapt out of his seat and ran upstairs to get back to reading, while the man began clearing up the dishes. She tried to help, but he waved her off.

"No problem. I always enjoy hosting." He set the dishes in the sink and toweled his hands off before offering one to her, which she shook. "And between you and me, thank you for being friends with Madoka. She's my eldest, and I trust her, but as a father I can't help but worry sometimes. I'm glad she has a reliable friend like you to watch her back."

Homura paused for a minuscule moment in shaking Tomohisa's hand, but he didn't notice.

"Of course. The pleasure is mine."

Madoka was waiting for her by the door. She followed her out, and the two of them walked to the end of the front yard, where a small wooden gate separated the lot from the outside world. It was a warm spring night, very much like the one when they met for the first time.

"Will you be okay from here?" Madoka asked.

"Yes, I should be fine," Homura said. "The station isn't too far. You don't have class tomorrow?"

"Not until the afternoon on Mondays," the pinkette said. "I'll head up in the morning."

It was a mundane, ordinary conversation, masked in the warm hug of the fireflies floating around the garden lights. On any other day, this would have been just fine. Homura might have gone home feeling proud of herself for finally making a friend, maybe.

But today she couldn't ignore the occasional tremors that still roiled through Madoka's hands, or the way she chewed incessantly at her bottom lip. She was hurting still, deeply and viscerally, but she wouldn't show it.

It bred a sense of sympathy within Homura, but there was something more beneath that. Something a little more twisted.

Fascination.

She turned to leave, but before she could go Madoka reached forward and pulled her into a tight hug.

Homura wasn't a touchy person. She hated being touched. Her least favorite thing in the world was a crowded subway during rush hour. She had hardly even hugged her own parents, if ever.

But the curiosity was too great, it drove her. It was sudden, almost breathtaking; she supposed when one rarely touched others, even something as simple as a hug became electric. She was so soft, and so small; her nose pressed against the collar of Homura's shirt.

"Thank you," Madoka whispered. "For coming home with me. For being there. It really means a lot. I know we just met. We're just strangers…but I was so scared, and I still don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. But I'm glad I wasn't alone. I'm glad you were there. You're a good person, Homura. So…thank you."

Madoka released her then, flashing her a pained smile before retreating towards the house. But before she reached the door she stopped and turned back to Homura.

"Can I ask you something? That man…did you recognize him?"

Homura stared at Madoka, her face shrouded in shadow.

"No," she said. "I didn't."

Madoka smiled once more, then waved before disappearing inside the house.

Homura stood with one hand on the wooden gate, struggling with a sensation she had never known before.

* * *

She could have taken the subway home, but instead she walked. It took nearly an hour that way, but she felt like she needed time. Time to process, time to digest.

As Homura walked she thought. She thought deeply, barely even paying attention to where her feet were taking her; she let instinct lead the way home. The warmth of Madoka's touch lingered in her pores. The utter simplicity of the girl's expression, wide and shallow like a pond after a heavy rain, was seared into her memory.

How fascinating. Madoka Kaname, the innocent young girl whose mother was far from it. Homura didn't need to know the girl well to know that she was naive. Young at heart, easily trusting of others; diligent, honest, and straightforward. She could infer the rest. The impeccable interior of that house, Tomohisa's kind smile, Tatsuya's wholesomeness, they all screamed about the quality of Madoka's character.

There was just one piece that didn't fit into the puzzle. Or perhaps it used to, until today.

Junko Kaname, the woman who represented everything Madoka aspired to be. Homura had seen it on the train back, how much the girl idolized her mother. And why shouldn't she? The woman sounded incredible, by all accounts. But now that incredulity had been betrayed.

And the woman's accomplice. Who was he? What were his motivations? The brief glimpse she had caught through the binoculars that afternoon raised so many questions. And like Madoka, she craved answers.

Though unlike Madoka, she might have a method to satisfy that craving.

Her apartment was dark when she returned; Kyouko wasn't home. The door closed behind her as she made her way into her bedroom, not bothering to turn on the lights; she was comforted by the cover of darkness. It matched the color of her thoughts. She fell into her tiny desk, which was shoved into the tiny corner next to her tiny twin bed in her tiny room, and opened her laptop.

She called up a search engine. The name she typed into the search field came naturally, almost unbidden. It was a name she had read many, many times, but had never thought too much about it until now.

_Sasaki Arata._

The engine returned results in a millisecond. She tabbed through them until she got to the images.

Taking out her phone, she pulled up the pictures she had taken earlier that day.

The same person. It was unmistakable.

Backing out of the image tab, Homura clicked on the wiki article that displayed the man's name.

Sasaki Arata, aged fifty six. Born in a nearby prefecture, current residence, Mitakihara City.

Occupation: company owner.

Once she remembered, Homura knew instantly why the man's face had looked so familiar. There was a reason why Toby's publishing company was the one she chose to submit her work to. It could have been any other place, somewhere easier with lower standards. But no, it had to be Toby's company, because she had a dream.

Sasaki Arata, the sole owner of Toshoukan Publishing, and Toby's employer.

And, as it just so happened, the author of _The Glass Garden._

Homura spent several moments sitting motionlessly in front of the computer, its pale glow bathing her face. She felt a mixture of emotions: shock, incredulity, disbelief. To her it felt like two separate universes, hers and the one within _The Glass _Garden, had come together.

She then opened a new tab and searched a different name.

_Junko Kaname._

An impressive resume, as advertised. The chief officer of the financial advisory arm of a large multinational corporation. Not much other public information, aside from a couple shallow Forbes articles. Images…no pictures of them together.

She closed her computer and left her desk. Her window squeaked as she pushed it open, letting in the warm night air.

Fascinating. It was all so fascinating. The head of her favorite publishing group and the author of her most beloved novel, in an affair with a married woman. Was Sasaki married? She didn't know. It hardly mattered. And then the woman herself, an impressive figure influential in her own field. And finally the daughter, young and tender, witnessing something that could change her world forever.

Intimacy, discovery, betrayal. A glimpse into the human psyche. Could this be it, what she had been waiting for? A way to move forward, to gain the understanding she so craved.

She knew this feeling. She hadn't experienced it in a very long time, but she would always recognize it immediately. A heavy pull that beckoned at her heartstrings. An excitement that flew through her veins.

An elusive secret, the key to everything she desired.

Inspiration.

She exhaled slowly before closing the window. Sitting down at her desk, she turned on her laptop and opened a word processor. After that she pulled out several pieces of paper from inside her desk; she always drafted on paper first.

Once she found a pen with enough ink, she began to write.

* * *

**Someone please give me a cookie for uploading on time for a straight month. Please.**

**-Banshee**


	5. Spring Rain

Chapter Five - Spring Rain

Writing often made Homura think of sponges and rain.

Lately, in the last few months or so, the very act of writing had been a struggle. Putting words to the page was like wringing water out of a sponge that had been left on the stove for a thousand years. It was dry, it yielded nothing; in the end she tossed the sponge aside in disgust.

Forcing oneself to write, but being unable to write in a way that satisfied oneself, was verifiable torture. She wanted to write, she had a dream; and yet constantly chasing that dream meant no guarantee of its attainment. She could write all she wanted. It would never mean she would write something she could show the world. It is an ugly feeling to know you want something and have dedicated your love and time to it only to see it grow further away. She felt like the Greek legend Sisyphus, cursed to forever roll a boulder to the top of a mountain, never to complete his task.

Once in a while though, it rained. A long and heavy rain that drowned the entire world and silenced it, so that she could focus on the words coming from within. She could go outside and soak her stupid sponge and wring it all she wanted, wring it over and over again, because the water was endless. The only thing that could stop her was the exhaustion within her own two hands.

Such was the feeling that seized Homura that night. As she wrote she lost track of time. For the first time in eternity she was fascinated with something. She pressed on, she neglected food and water and sleep; she had to make use of this time, before the rain stopped.

It really did rain that night, a light drizzle that pitter pattered off her window. The rain continued throughout the dark and into the light. The ideas flowed like the water running in rivulets down her window. She was invincible, powerful; she felt as if she understood any and all things, for in this world of her own creation she was omniscient.

The sun was beginning to rise when she finally decided to take a break. She put her pen down, which was starting to go dry, and fell onto her creaky bed. But she did not close her eyes, did not seek rest. Check the time: five thirty in the morning. She had class in a few hours. No point in trying to sleep now. She would be fine; one all nighter was child's play for a serious writer.

But some water would be nice.

She grabbed some from the kitchen and returned. Once she was hydrated she sat down and typed up everything she had written down. Some of it was unintelligible, just nonsense, but she loved each and every word and opted to keep it all. Once she was done she went to the bathroom and took a long shower.

It was around seven in the morning when she heard the front door open. Kyouko. Homura retreated into her room and toweled herself off, pulling on some clothes and making sure she didn't look too frazzled before emerging.

Her redheaded roommate was in the kitchen. She stood with her elbows leaned up against the island, munching on an apple. She caught Homura's eye and lowered the apple from her mouth, seeming somewhat self conscious.

"Oh, hey." Kyouko wiped her mouth with her sleeve. She was in a black tank and shorts, though Homura had never seen her in anything else. The girl's usual teal jacket hung by the door. "Did I wake you up?"

Homura shook her head. She walked behind Kyouko, where an electric kettle was sitting on the counter. "Coming from somewhere?"

Kyouko watched her, as if mulling over what to say, then grinned. "Yeah, Sayaka's. Her roommate doesn't come back till later this morning, so I spent the night. Had to bounce before she came though. Wouldn't want to be a bother."

Homura hummed as she filled the kettle and put it on. It gurgled quietly beside her. "Considerate of you."

"How about you? Do anything over the weekend? Besides study, that is."

"I had dinner with…a friend."

Kyouko guffawed around her apple. "So you've got friends?"

"Sometimes," Homura said. The kettle clicked and she poured its contents into a waiting cup, dropping a bag of chamomile tea inside.

The redhead shrugged as Homura pulled up a stool and sat across from her by the island. "Hey, I wouldn't know. We never talk. You're always in and out, I'm always in and out. Like that one American burger chain. You know the one? Anyway, you could have zero friends or a billion. I'd be none the wiser."

"Mmm." Homura sipped distractedly at her tea. "How is your girlfriend?"

Kyouko seemed surprised to be asked. "Sayaka? She's good. We're both good. In fact, last night was _very_ good, if you catch my drift." She waggled her eyebrows before making an obscene gesture with her hands.

Homura eyed her roommate. "Your drift is caught."

"Good. So assuming I did a good job, I'd reckon she's doing great."

"Can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Have you ever thought about cheating on her?"

There was a jagged silence, in which the rain scattering against the kitchen window was the only discernible sound.

Homura raised a hand. "I should add, I'm not trying to suggest anything. It's just a question, out of pure curiosity."

Kyouko put her apple on the island. "Fuck's wrong with you? Why the hell would you ask me that?"

"Like I said, I was just asking. I'm not saying you want to, or should. In fact, I'd probably recommend against it. I just wanted to know."

"Even if I have, and I _haven't_, I wouldn't tell you of all people," Kyouko snapped. She scarfed down the rest of her apple and flung the core into the track can, although she missed badly. "You've really got zero tact, you know that? I just got back from having awesome, loving sex with my awesome, loving girlfriend, and that's the end of it. Got that?"

"Yes, I did. Thank you."

Kyouko glared at her. "Say whatever you want. I don't care. At least I can hold a chick down for longer than a week, unlike you and that girl you brought here last semester."

With that Kyouko stalked out of the kitchen and into her room. Homura sipped quietly at her tea, trying to contain the anger that had flared up within her at her roommate's words.

* * *

It was still raining when Homura reached her bus stop, a small black umbrella clutched in her hand. She felt irritable, though whether it was from lack of sleep or what Kyouko had said she could not say.

What did that girl know anyway? They lived in completely different worlds. The way she saw it, the redhead lived flippantly, without care. She had a girlfriend, she didn't think about her future; she had plenty of friends and did whatever whenever. Homura knew there was absolutely no way the two of them saw the world as the other did.

Though if that were true, she shouldn't feel so bothered.

She lifted a hand and put it to her chest. Suddenly, from the soft gray of the misty rain came memories she had buried. Memories of intimacy. Like Madoka's embrace, but deeper, more visceral. She felt a sense of longing for something that didn't exist anymore, maybe never existed at all.

Something rumbled in the distance, and the bus arrived. Homura shook her head as she boarded.

It wasn't healthy to think about it.

At one of the bus stops two boys go on and sat together a few rows in front of her. They were talking loudly when they boarded and did not stop once the bus was moving; the topic of their conversation was so mundane and pointless as to not merit description. They were both hulking, tall boys with impressive physiques. The flat, inflectionless baritone of their voices lended their exchange a vaguely unintelligent aura. What did people like that dream about? What got them out of bed in the morning and kept them up at night? She doubted they were writing, like she was. But they must want something, they must have dreams like her.

In any case, she wished they would shut up.

The lecture hall was subdued when she arrived, in the way it often was when it rained. Homura, on the other hand, rather enjoyed rainy days. She felt empowered, almost superior to her languid classmates.

During the lecture she opened her laptop and typed out an email to Toby.

_Toby,_

_Hope you're well. How's that air conditioning bill coming along? I've written something I think could be very good. It is still very early in the process, but I would like for you to take a look and give your opinion. Please let me know when you can meet up._

_Best,_

_Sunako_

Not her real name of course; she always corresponded with Toby via her pen name. Just a pen name, that was all it was.

The lecture ended and the professor passed back an assessment he had graded. Low groans rose from the room as the students saw their scores. Homura, on the other hand, scored a ninety four; well above the average. She couldn't muster much sympathy for her peers, many of whom seemed devastated. Maybe they should have spent the entire week studying like she did.

After lecture she was free until later that afternoon, so she went to the library and took a nap. She went to the very back of the section where they kept all the CD's, because no one ever wanted those anymore and she would not be disturbed. After propping up her bag behind her back she leaned against a bookshelf and fell asleep almost immediately.

After a brief dream about caramel squares (she was a big fan), Homura woke to an alarm she had set for herself. It had only been an hour, but she was not one to waste time. She found an empty desk nearby and wrote for the remainder of the morning, putting down anything that came to mind.

She was tired, but not tired enough to stop. Homura had the feeling that she had to make the most of this moment. Once she stopped adding to it the idea would settle, and it would become harder to change. She needed to get it all down now.

Homura spent the remainder of the week in largely the same manner. She stayed up late into the night and still dragged herself to lecture. Money was nothing if not a terrifying motivator, and she could not afford to lose her scholarship. After four or five days she was starting to develop dark bags beneath her eyes, and her hair refused to stay down straight, but she hardly cared. She felt fulfilled.

Toby, however, was slow in getting back to her email. After three days she followed up with him, but by the time Saturday had rolled around she had yet to receive a reply. Annoyed, Homura sent a second follow up before going back to writing. Toby had never been the most reliable person, but this was a bit ridiculous.

It was late on Sunday night when Homura still hadn't heard back from Toby. She sent a third follow up email, more tersely worded this time. Afterwards she made to close her phone but was surprised to see an email pop up beneath her notifications, no more than a minute later.

Pursing her lips, she opened the message.

_Sunako,_

_This is Takanashi Rikka. I am Nakagawa Tobio's new secretary. From here on out I will be managing his correspondence with outside clientele._

_That being said, Mr. Nakagawa is unfortunately very busy and will be unable to take a look at your manuscript in the near future. As you may be aware, the company is undergoing some restructuring. He is already working with many talented writers and has his own responsibilities to fulfill._

_We hope you will be understanding of the situation, and seek to take your great talents elsewhere._

_Best,_

_Takanashi Rikka_

Homura reread the message several times before tossing her phone onto the bed in disgust. There was something vaguely sarcastic and threatening about the email that ticked her off. How long had this Takanashi Rikka character been working at Toshoukan Publishing? No more than a couple weeks, at most. She had probably spent more time in that building than this so called secretary.

Reopening her phone, Homura typed out a brief response.

_Rikka,_

_Thank you for updating me on Toby's situation. I greatly appreciate it. That being said, I would like to speak with Toby in person and confirm his availability (or lack thereof) so I will make time to stop by tomorrow._

_-Sunako_

The flippant use of given names, and the casual brushing aside of Rikka's warning; she hoped the message was crafted in a way that would irk the secretary for a few minutes.

It had rained lightly throughout the entire week, and it rained again the next morning when Homura left her morning lecture and hopped on the train uptown. Mitakihara was subdued by an aura of gray, in the way cities are when it rains; her rain boots squelched against the floor of the train as she sat down.

As she waited, Homura wondered what Madoka was up to. She imagined the girl was still grappling with what had happened. Would she confront her mother directly, or tell her father first instead? Or would she keep it to herself, afraid to say anything and destroy the suddenly fragile peace of her everyday life?

All very poignant questions, which Homura would have no problem imagining the answers to. But part of her preferred to meet the girl and find out directly from the source, because authenticity was everything. Unfortunately, Homura lacked Madoka's contact information.

The train let her out in a dark and empty train station uptown. If she had come earlier the place would have been a rat race of salarymen making their way to the office, but there was a reason why she hadn't skipped morning lecture.

It was an old station, built way back when people still used phone books. Streaky graffiti lurked on the walls and rats scurried back and forth across the tracks, scattering when sudden vibrations announced an approaching train. Dark rainwater dripped from cracks in the ceiling, leaving the platform damp beneath her shoes.

An old homeless man was propped up against the wall by the stairs leading out of the station. He sat on a ragged blanket that was held down by a couple cardboard boxes of belongings. He had a small box opened in front of him that was filled with a few clumps of spare change. His eyes glowered out from two sunken eye sockets as he sat hunched over, carefully watching the occasional passerby.

Homura gave him a wide berth, then exited the station.

From there it was a short walk to the publishing building. Homura entered through the rotating door and approached the front desk, where a receptionist she recognized was waiting.

"I'm here to see Nakagawa Tobio."

The receptionist waved her up without protest. She knew better by now. Homura took the elevator up and emerged onto the floor, where another front desk with another nicely dressed lady was waiting.

This particular lady seemed to be in her early thirties, which meant she probably claimed late twenties on dates. A pair of horn rimmed glasses sat on a tiny nose. She looked up in surprise when Homura stopped in front of her, setting a stack of papers aside.

"Can I help you? I don't remember getting anyone called up," she said, checking her desk phone.

"No one called," Homura assured her. "I was let up. Is Nakagawa Tobio available?"

The lady stared at Homura for a moment, then seemed to put two and two together. She sighed and took off her glasses.

"So you must be Miss Sunako. You actually came?"

"As promised."

"Well I'm sorry, but I can't let you see him. He is in a meeting right now, and you don't have an appointment."

"I assure you that I have never had an appointment when coming here," Homura said. "And Toby is nothing if not flexible. I won't trouble you; I can go find him myself."

Takanashi Rikka bristled. "No, you will not. Miss Sunako, you are being unreasonable. The office is under a lot of stress at the moment and we cannot accommodate your request. Like I mentioned, we're undergoing some changes."

"Well they must be good changes, if they can afford a new secretary."

"I was transferred here after my department was closed down," Rikka snapped.

As Homura was about to say something snappy back, the elevator opened behind her and Toby walked out, a folder stuffed with papers propped on his shoulder.

"Good morning, Rikka. And…you. Am I forgetting something, or is this just a bad day?" Toby sighed, putting a hand on his hip.

Homura smiled. "I'm happy to see you too, Toby."

"Mr. Nakagawa, I apologize. She doesn't have an appointment, but she won't-"

Toby help up a hand, smiling softly. "That's alright. My meeting ended early. I'll handle this. Take care of these in the meantime, please?" He placed the folder next to Rikka and gestured to Homura. "Follow me."

The two of them took the elevator back down to the lobby, where a small cafe for employees was situated by the windows. They took a seat in the corner where they would not be disturbed, neither of them bothering to order anything.

"Okay, I'm just going to cut to the chase." Toby clasped his hands together on the table. "I was CC'd on that email you sent, and the short of it is that Rikka was absolutely correct. I've tried to carve out time for you until now, but certain things are in motion now and I have a lot more on my plate. I know it's not what you want to hear, but I don't have time for anyone other than my clients."

"What certain things?" Homura asked. "Two weeks ago you were more than happy to meet me."

"You're quite the optimist," Toby said. "That was me putting my responsibilities off, if anything. And you had been so persistent, I wanted to at least give you some face time. Besides, whatever it is you've come up with, I'm assuming it isn't done."

That much was true. Perhaps she had been too eager to move forward.

"So you really can't help me."

Toby nodded. "Like my secretary said, we're undergoing some restructuring now. Unfortunately for you and me, the business of printing and selling stories is on its way out. Our president assures us that he has plans for the future, and that these are necessary losses. I have no choice but to believe him…which reminds me, try not to be too hard on Rikka. She's been under a lot of stress, getting transferred and whatnot. She narrowly missed being laid off with the rest of her team. I went to college with her older brother, so I was able to put a word in. But the rest of them? All unemployed, now. So try to have a little empathy, okay? The horizon isn't where the sky ends."

Homura left the building soon after that. The rain obscured everything as she walked back to the station; when she looked into the distance, she couldn't even tell where the horizon was.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Toby suggested that she try her luck elsewhere before she left. _We aren't the only publisher in this city,_ he said.

All very well and true, but Toshoukan was certainly one of the largest. And she couldn't guarantee that someone nice like Toby would be working at any of those publishers. The truth was that she had no connections and no publications under her belt to make her case; meeting Toby had been a stroke of luck.

After walking a couple blocks, she sat down at a bus stop and tried to see if she could look up any information about the company's financial situation, but found little to nothing. Toshoukan was privately owned and thus not publicly traded, so there wasn't much insight into their health as a firm. She supposed she had to take Toby's words at face value.

Sighing, she set her phone aside and stared sightlessly across the street.

Or perhaps not so sightlessly, because she saw someone she recognized.

There was a small cafe across the street, tucked in between a designer store and a family diner. Madoka was seated at a table by the window, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. Homura picked up her umbrella and crossed the street, almost forgetting to look both ways beforehand.

The cafe was quaint, with warm lighting and cozy wooden furniture. A barista with a thick beard nodded at her when she entered, a small book held in his hands. The speakers played classical music; Chopin's Nocturne Opus 9 No. 2, mainstream but comforting in its familiarity.

Madoka was scrolling through her phone when Homura approached, but she had a blank expression on her face like she wasn't seeing anything she was looking at.

"Fancy meeting you here," Homura said.

The pinkette started and looked up. "Oh…Homura! What are you doing here?"

"I had some business to take care of nearby," Homura said. "What about you?"

"Oh…" Madoka smiled sheepishly. "I was on the bus and I totally spaced out. Next thing I knew I had missed all these stops, and then it started raining…I thought I'd kill some time here and wait out the rain."

"Do you mind?" Homura asked. Madoka shook her head and Homura sat down across from her. "I want to say I didn't take you for the clumsy type, but I'd be lying."

The girl laughed. "Well, thank you for being honest. What sort of business did you have nearby?"

Homura played her fingers across the table. "I'd rather not get into that, if you don't mind. It wasn't good business."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"How about you? Did anything else happen since…you know, last week?"

Madoka smiled softly. "I'd rather not get into that either. But…I haven't said anything to anyone. Not yet. I can't bring myself to."

Homura merely nodded. She wanted to know more, burned for it; but she knew better than to press. She ordered from the barista and sat back down, the two of them watching the world drown outside the window.

"My roommate hasn't been home much lately, which is why I thought I'd camp out here," Madoka said. "There's something depressing about being home all alone, especially when it rains. At least here, I can be around people."

She seemed to want meaningless conversation. "I'd disagree. I'm more at peace when I'm alone," Homura said.

"You don't get lonely?"

"Alone and lonely aren't the same thing. And I've always been fine on my own."

The barista brought Homura's coffee. She thanked him and took a small sip. Warm and tasteful; she would remember this place.

"I wonder what it's like to be in love," Madoka said. "My roommate, she's my best friend. We've known each other for years and years, but I've never seen her like this before. I suppose because it's her first real love. She seems so happy…though of course, I don't see her as much any more. That makes me a little sad. But I'm happy for her."

"It's the honeymoon phase. I'm sure it'll wear off."

Madoka smiled. "Maybe. Do you speak from experience?"

Homura forced a wan smile. "Not much. Just a little."

The conversation remained similarly mundane as the rain continued to fall. Madoka's favorite flavor for anything was strawberry; she disliked bitter things like dark chocolate, and her favorite singer was Yanagi Nagi. _Her voice is so pure and soulful…it makes bad days good again,_ she said. Her hobbies included cooking and building scale models; in fact, whenever a new one was released from her favorite series she would go out and buy it, then spend the rest of the day building it in her room.

"Really, scale models? That's surprising."

Madoka smiled sheepishly. "I don't really talk about it. I mean, it's kind of weird, right?"

"Well, I make up imaginary stories that nobody ever reads, so I'm in no place to judge."

"Don't be like that! I'm sure they're very good. I can read them sometime, if you want some feedback. Though I'm not a very advanced reader…and you should come over sometime! I'll show you all my scales."

"Do you have a favorite?"

"Oh, yes! The Star Destroyer model I made last year took forever. But it's the time you put into it that makes the model special! Though I'll admit I haven't seen Star Wars or know anything about it…but the Star Destroyer is so cool! I can't even remember how many pieces it had…I had glue stuck under my nails for a week."

Homura squirreled all this information on Madoka into the back of her mind for later. To her authenticity was key. The more she knew about Madoka, the more real the story became.

"I had to meet with my counselor on Wednesday to discuss my major," Madoka sighed. "We have a year left before we have to declare, but they really pressure you to pick early…will you stick with economics, Homura?"

"Yes, I intend to. I'm already declared."

Madoka blinked. "You are? Aren't you afraid you'll change your mind?"

"Not really. I know it's not exactly what I want to do, but I also don't mind it. It's good work that pays well enough, and I'm smart enough to do it. As long as it supports my goals in the future, it hardly matters to me what my resume says."

The pinkette smiled at her. "You seem really sure about yourself. I admire that a lot. I always wish I was more headstrong, more confident. I wonder what the secret is. Do you mind telling me?"

Homura thought about it before answering. "I think if you have a dream you really want, you either find your courage or let it go."

"Is writing your dream? Is that how you became so confident?"

"It is. Most writers won't admit it, but it takes a certain level of narcissism to decide that the world needs to hear your stories. You have to have faith in your own prose, anyways. How about you? If you had a dream, something you want with all your heart, would you do anything it takes to attain it?"

For some reason Madoka took a long time to answer Homura's question. She threw back the rest of her coffee and then looked out the window. The rain was finally beginning to subside. It occurred to Homura that Madoka might not be thinking about her own dreams, but rather her mother's dreams, or perhaps Homura's. She understood it was sometimes terrifying for those without dreams to look at those who did; it was a nebulous thing that changed your very understanding of a person.

"I would like to think that I would," Madoka said finally. "It would be nice to have such a powerful dream. I suppose that is where bravery comes from. If I had the strength to decide what it is I want, and then make it happen, I think I would love that version of myself. And I hope you never give up on your dream either, Homura. I hope you reach it one day. Whatever it takes."

It was Homura's turn to smile. "Even if I have to step on people on the way?"

Madoka laughed softly. "That isn't very nice, is it?"

"I'm not a nice person."

"Don't say that. Who else would concern themselves with a helpless stranger like me? You were there when I needed someone, and even now you're here. I don't know what else to call that than kindness. You might not think you are, Homura, but I think you are a very kind person."

The rain ended, and they left the cafe. Madoka asked for Homura's phone and typed her number into it before handing it back. _So we can meet on purpose next time,_ she said.

They took the train back downtown together. The streets glistened with the shallow pools left behind after a heavy rain. Now that the clouds had parted, Homura could see the horizon, outlined in stark contrast to the sun.

The old homeless man was still sitting in the same spot when they descended into the station. Homura skirted around him and waited on the platform for the train.

Madoka, on the other hand, knelt and left five hundred yen in the little box, as naturally as the passing of time.

* * *

Once Homura got home she went straight to her room and put on the Chopin Nocturne that had been playing in the cafe, because she felt like she needed a reference point to reality.

She took out her phone and opened the photos of Sasaki Arata and Kaname Junko. She placed the phone on her desk and stared at it, all while listening to the pianist's rubato. Snatches of things she had heard today floated through her mind.

_I don't have time for anyone other than my clients._

_I hope you reach it one day. Whatever it takes._

_I think you are a very kind person._

Madoka did not know her, and she probably never would. The truth was that Homura was not a kind person, far from it. But she was honest, and she had told the truth to Madoka's face at the cafe. It had been the pinkette's choice not to believe her. Kindness was something Homura neither possessed nor valued. The world was filled with kind people already. Only a handful of them were good people on top of that, and even fewer were strong.

Her eyes flitted across the room, from the picture on her phone, to the manuscript on her computer, to the window outside.

And in the depths of her mind, a plan began to form.

* * *

**In writing this it has occurred to me that I haven't seen many, if any fics where Homura meets Madoka while she is in her "cynical" form. Typically in fics Homura is either in her insecure form and has just met Madoka, or is in her cynical form and has known Madoka for a long time. As a result I realized there isn't much meta to go off of in terms of "cynical Homura meeting normal Madoka," which I suppose is interesting from an originality standpoint.**

**Anyways, thanks for reading! Please review.**

**-Banshee**


	6. Amber Heart

Chapter Six - Amber Heart

Homura did not often receive texts. She only got messages when her phone company had to let her know she was running out of data, which happened regularly because she had the cheapest plan possible.

So the message she got on Saturday morning came as a surprise. She had planned to sleep in, having gone deep into the night writing; one groggy eye cracked open to the glowing screen on her bedside table.

[_Let's go on a date!_]

Her heart jolted a little, until she saw who it was from. Exhaling, she picked up the phone and turned so she was laying flat on her stomach, a storm of black hair falling around her face.

[_That's rather forward of you,_] Homura replied.

She could feel Madoka's sheepish grin through the screen. [_Ah…sorry. My roommate always calls our outings dates, even though she's got a girlfriend…but I still want to go out with you. Are you free today?_]

[_Well, I'm not busy._]

[_So cold! You'd make a terrible girlfriend._]

Homura sighed as she rose from her bedsheets, stretching both arms above her head. She had only slept for about four hours, but it would have to do. Writers ought to chase inspiration, not the other way around.

They met that afternoon at the campus cafe, a quiet little place tucked between the philosophy and nursing departments. Homura arrived first, taking a seat for herself by the window. Madoka arrived soon in a light blouse and shorts that complimented her slender figure; Homura thought she looked like a summer dandelion.

"Hey! Did you wait long?" The girl panted slightly as she approached the table. A slight sheen of sweat clung to her brow, but she smelled nice; a hint of strawberry.

Homura snorted. "That's something you would say on an actual date. And no, I just got here."

Madoka made a face.

Homura just wanted a black coffee, but Madoka insisted on ordering the crushed ice sundae the cafe carried. Homura had seen it only in pictures: a monstrous thing piled higher than all her favorite books, complete with an assortment of fruits and syrup.

"That thing's massive. How in the world will you finish it?"

"Not just me, we're going to share it!"

"Um, I don't have much of a sweet tooth."

"Well, then you can just watch."

A young waiter brought out the sundae on a wide tray, walking slowly so it wouldn't tip and fall. Homura made a face of her own as it was placed on the table between them; it looked like a melted wedding cake.

As Madoka licked her chops and rubbed her hands together, some of the other patrons in the cafe began glancing their way and whispering to each other. Apparently not everyone was brazen enough to order the Mitakihara University Sundae on a whim.

Madoka whipped out her phone and got ready to take a picture of the sundae. Homura tried to inch out of frame, but the girl insisted she stay put.

"It's to commemorate our first date. Besides, I need something dark and muted for the background since this thing's so colorful."

Homura glanced down at her black shirt and light gray cardigan, and had to concede her wardrobe was rather drab.

"Okay, time to dig in!" Madoka dug her spoon into the sundae and scooped it into her mouth, putting a hand to her cheek. "Ugh…I've been craving this all week. You're missing out, Homura."

As Madoka stuffed herself, Homura eyed her from across the table. Now that she thought about it, this was probably what normal Madoka was like. The first time they met she was crying in the library (the memory made her cringe). After that, at the _Midoriiro;_ and then by chance under the rain.

She supposed studying Madoka's state of normalcy was important in itself. Whether it was a front or not, it would serve as valuable reference data.

Madoka swallowed another spoonful of ice cream and glanced around the cafe. "Looks like everyone's studying for exams. Do you have midterms, Homura?"

"Next week, yes. But I'm ready."

The girl sighed dramatically. "Oh, I get it. You're the studious type. Well, it makes sense. You wouldn't understand the struggle of us mere mortals."

Homura blinked. "Well given that you're here with me instead of studying, I take it you're also ready for your exams."

Madoka blushed and started eating faster. "Of course, I'm super ready! More ready than I've ever been in my life. So ready I'm not ready at all."

Homura made a bemused face. "Which classes are you in?"

"I'm clearing my gen eds first while I decide on a major. I'm in this east asian literature class, that's my first exam next week…"

"With professor Kamishiro?"

"Oh, yeah. Did you take his class?"

"Yes, last semester. It shouldn't be too much trouble; the class is rather straightforward, isn't it?"

"…you thought it was easy?"

"Well, yes. I never really studied for it. Why, do you-"

"Geez! If you're so smart then maybe you should just teach me everything for the exam!" Madoka grabbed a second spoon and thrust it into Homura's hands. "You've made me mad now. Eat!"

"But-"

"Eat!"

* * *

After they both stumbled out of the cafe with bulging stomachs (the cafe staff was very impressed), Madoka wanted to go to the shopping district. More specifically the uptown shopping district, which Homura understood as being more geared towards nerd culture, otaku stuff.

_Is she into that sort of thing?_ Homura wondered, as Madoka took her hand and pulled her along the sidewalk like an excited child. She had walked through that area a few time before; it was all anime and manga shops, themed cafes and girls in maid outfits handing out flyers, that sort of thing. Not really her scene.

_I guess if I'm going to be writing about it, I should do some research._

The shopping district was packed. It was the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday. Madoka squeezed Homura's hand as she led her through the crush of people. Some of them wore face masks, their sweat glistening on their foreheads; in the mass of human flesh it felt like a summer day, despite it being spring.

Their destination was a medium-sized store in a shallow back alley of the shopping district, its entrance sheltered from the sweltering heat. A single bright neon sign twinkled above the door, a folding chalkboard placed out front.

"What is this place exactly?" Homura asked.

"It's a scale model store," Madoka explained, ushering her inside. "A hobby shop, basically. They sell all sorts of stuff, and they've got displays too, which they switch out every month."

Beyond the entrance was a single stairwell that led both up and down. They descended to the lower level, finding another opening that was covered by a bunch of those hippie door beads, for some reason. Madoka swept them aside and entered the store first.

"Hey, Mr. Yanagida! How've you been?"

"Oh, Madoka. It's been a while." A man who appeared to be in his early thirties greeted her from behind the counter. He was sitting with a light novel in his hands, his wire thin frame hunched over the story like he was protecting it from something. Dark curly hair fell over his eyes, and he wore a face mask for some reason, despite being indoors and the store being mostly empty.

The girl pranced up to the counter and rested her elbows on it. "I had some stuff going on. Life stuff. Are you over that cold yet?"

"Yes, it's been a month. I got over it weeks ago."

"Then why the mask?"

"I figure it's a good hedge against never getting sick again in my life."

Madoka snorted. "You're as meticulous as ever!"

Homura entered behind Madoka, scanning the store. There were no windows, it being underground. Fluorescent lights cast a pale glow over everything. The counter was by the door, but the rest of the floor space was occupied by rows of shelfs stacked high with boxes of scale model kits.

It was breathtakingly cluttered. Homura had the sense she couldn't look anywhere without seeing _something_; an old 1990s Gundam, a World War II airplane, a Lamborghini. All the boxes were haphazardly stacked upon one another with no apparent rhyme or reason. The floor was littered with random bits and pieces of plastic. It felt less like walking into a store and more like entering someone's home; she had the sensation that she was witnessing a lifestyle.

The man's eyes flitted over to her. "Friend of yours?"

Madoka brightened. "Oh yes, we met recently. Mr. Yanagida, this is Homura, my classmate from college. Homura, this is Mr. Yanagida. He's the owner of this shop."

Homura bowed her head politely as Yanagida waved loosely at her. "Pleasure. It's good to meet another one of Madoka's friends. I'd shake your hand, but it's an unhygienic practice."

"Mr. Yanagida's a germaphobe," Madoka explained.

"I'm not afraid of germs! I'm just pragmatic."

"Pragmatically germaphobic!"

"That doesn't even make any sense."

"No worries. I'm not too touchy feely either," Homura said with a slight smile. Yanagida saluted her in acknowledgement.

"Anyways, Mr. Yanagida," Madoka said impatiently, "Did you finish that thing?"

The man's eyes wrinkled as he smiled behind his face mask, and he closed his light novel before setting it aside. "I forgot we haven't seen each other in a while. Yes, I did in fact finish 'that thing.' Would you like to see it?"

Without waiting for a response, he rose from his chair and led them to the back of the store. The perimeter of the floor space was ringed by several glass display boxes, like the ones they had in jewelry stores, except these were packed to the brim with scale models. They seemed to be mostly World War II type models, planes and tanks and such, though Homura was no expert.

On top of the glass in the back was an upside down cardboard box that seemed to be concealing something. The box itself was rather large; about as long as a guitar case.

"I just put the finishing touches in last week," Yanagida said. "I need to go get someone to build a new case for this little lady, so until then she stays under the box. For your eyes only…"

Putting his hands on the box, he lifted it and revealed its contents.

"It's a boat," Homura observed.

A rather larger boat, in fact. More accurately it was an aircraft carrier. Even to her untrained eye, the model was incredibly well made; there was detail all the way down to the finishing of the metal hull and the texture of the paint. Moreover, it was huge; the model was easily multiple feet long. Several small fighter planes sat on the ship's deck, lined up neatly like pins.

"Not just any boat!" Madoka knelt down and circled the completed model, a thoughtful hand on her chin. "This is the legendary Yamato-class battleship, the _Shinano!_ At its time it was the largest aircraft carrier every built. It could carry, like, fifty planes!"

"Forty seven," Yanagida corrected with a smile. "But yes. As you know there aren't a lot of actual pictures of this thing out there; I had to pull together a bunch of different sources and guess my way to building this. All the way down to the rocket launchers."

"Rocket launchers! Super cool!"

Yanagida laughed. "Very cool indeed."

A jingle sounded from the front of the store. A customer had arrived, his voice calling out from beyond the shelves.

"I need to take care of that. You two are free to look, but make sure you put the box back when you're done."

As he disappeared behind the shelves, Homura took a closer look at the carrier. There were even little people on top, wearing mechanic uniforms and hats. Not something she really cared for personally, but she could appreciate the amount of dedication it must have taken.

Madoka, meanwhile, was thumbing through a Wikipedia article.

"He even got all the armaments right," she gushed. "Eight dual purpose guns, thirty-five AA guns…and twelve twenty-eight barrel AA rocket launchers."

"Rocket launchers are pretty cool," Homura said neutrally.

"I know! This huge thing could do twenty eight knots! Amazing how they could move something so big way back then. Also…oh." Madoka trailed off sheepishly. "Sorry, I started going off again. This must not make any sense to you."

Homura shrugged. "I can't say it does, but I can appreciate the art. Besides, we've been over this before. I just didn't know you were into boats too."

Madoka smiled. "Not just boats. I think I'm just really into big, complex stuff. Tanks, planes, buildings, space ships…I enjoy building them, even if it's just a model. While building I always think stuff like, 'it's amazing they made this in real scale,' or 'I think I understand why they chose to design it this way.' I guess I feel a little closer to the creator. I feel like I understand something new."

"I think that's admirable," Homura offered. She looked down at the carrier. "Though I must say building something like this without instructions is really something. Is this an obscure ship?"

Madoka wagged a finger. "Not exactly. Japan just kept it super top secret while they were building it. Like, death-penalty-if-you-tell-anyone-about-it top secret. So not a lot of people knew what it looked like, let alone took pictures."

"But people must have seen it once it was ready to use, right? In the war."

The girl beside her got a sudden wistful look in her eyes. "You'd think so. But if I remember right, they sent her out to another base to finish construction when an American submarine found her. Four torpedoes later she was sunk. I always think that's so sad…this huge boat, this massive secret, all that work, sunk just like that."

* * *

After they were done looking at the carrier, they put the box back and joined Yanagida at the front of the store. Madoka did one last round through the merchandise to see if there was anything she wanted to pick up, but decided not to get anything.

"Bye, Mr. Yanagida!" Madoka waved with both hands from the door. "I'll be back sooner next time."

Yanagida closed his light novel and waved it back. "You're always welcome, Madoka. You're the only one I'll ever let leave without buying anything."

"Before we go," Homura said, "Do you have a bathroom I could use?" That sundae from earlier was starting to get to her.

Yanagida showed her to a surprisingly (or maybe not so surprisingly) clean bathroom in the back. Madoka called out that she would wait upstairs. Once Homura was done she emerged to find the man quietly reading behind the counter again. Homura wondered if he was always in that position, day after day, never moving until someone came in to his store.

"Thanks for letting me use your bathroom."

"No problem." Yanagida glanced up at her. "I'm just glad Madoka still finds time to swing by this dump every now and then. I mean, it's not exactly somewhere you expect college girls to be hanging out, if you catch my drift."

Homura glanced around and was forced to concur. Now that she thought about it, if Yanagida's toilet was that clean and he was a pragmatic germaphobe, why was this place such a mess?

"All I ever get is guys my age or older coming in here. And you know us, we're all tired from everything that happened, or didn't happen, before." Yanagida thumbed the page he was on. "But her? She's young, she's got spirit. And real passionate about this stuff, surprisingly. I thought she might just be putting on a show at first, but she's the real deal. Though I can't say the same about the one she usually drags along with her."

"Does she typically come with someone else?"

"Some other girl she's friends with. All she ever does is whine about being bored and wanting to leave when she comes, though. Guess I can't blame her, this stuff's not for everyone. Anyways, you were much better behaved. I guess I'm just glad she's got someone who'll let her gush and talk about stuff she cares about. Lord knows I didn't have that growing up."

Homura forced a smile, somewhat thrown off. "Well, it's the decent thing to do."

"You'd be surprised, you know. Most people don't stick around unless there's something in it for them. Anyways, I've got a soft spot for the kid. Don't tell her that. But I hope you'll keep being a good friend to her."

* * *

When Homura emerged from the stairwell, she was surprised to see Madoka speaking to someone in the alley.

"I just gotta say, you really caught my eye…don't see a lot of cuties like you around here."

A man, most likely in his mid to late twenties, was standing between Madoka and the alley entrance. The girl was standing with her back to the wall, fidgeting from foot to foot with a smile on her face.

"Oh, um…thank you? I don't really think I'm that cute…"

"Don't be ridiculous, you're a real stunner! I've got to know more about you. What do you say? Are you free right now?"

"Um, I'm waiting for my friend…"

"Great, she can come too! The more the merrier."

"Oh, I don't know…"

"Excuse me," Homura said, suddenly appearing between the two of them. "Can I help you?"

The man blinked at Homura's sudden appearance, but quickly put on a charming smile. "You can, actually. There's a nice place we can sit down and chat one block over, if you're interested."

"Sorry, but we aren't," Homura said nonchalantly, hooking her arm through Madoka's. "We'll be going now."

"Eh, what's the problem? You both got boyfriends?"

"No, we don't."

"Then-"

"But we both bat for the other team, so to speak."

"You both…oh."

Homura left him to figure that part out, this time being the one to pull Madoka along behind her. They moved quickly, letting the afternoon crowds swallow them up.

She didn't stop walking until she was sure they weren't being followed. They stopped by a nearby convenience store and bought two strawberry milk drinks, sipping on them as they caught their breath.

Madoka sucked on her straw till the carton contracted and set it down on the counter. Her cheeks were painted a soft red.

"How did you know?" She asked.

Homura glanced at her. "How did I know what?"

"That, um…" Madoka tugged at her collar, her flush deepening. "You know, what you said. About batting for the other team."

Homura blinked. "I didn't, I just said that to get him off us."

"Oh."

"Do you…bat for the other team?"

Madoka broke eye contact. "I mean, yeah…it's not like, public information or anything though. In fact, I don't even know if I count. I've never done anything. I've never batted for any team really."

"That doesn't change what you identify as. You could never bat and still be on the team."

"But if you don't bat, won't you get kicked off by the coach?"

"Who the hell is the coach? And how would he kick you off the team?"

"Maybe if the other players complain that you aren't pulling your weight."

"This metaphor is falling apart."

Madoka laughed. Homura felt a smile creeping up on her own face, despite her best efforts. "Okay, sorry. I'm just not used to talking about it. Only my roommate knows, actually. But…I feel like I can trust you."

"Well, I have no incentive to tell anybody."

Madoka stuck her tongue out. "You could have just said 'yes, you can.' You'd make a terrible girlfriend."

They sat in silence, watching people sift by as they sipped their drinks. It was hot, for spring; a plug-in fan swiveled slowly in the corner. It lulled Homura into a vague sense of complacency, a feeling she wasn't familiar with.

"So uh, do you also…" Madoka cleared her throat, "bat for the other team?"

Homura thought about it seriously before answering. "I've batted…but I'm not sure if I'm on the team." She finished her drink and tossed it in the trash. "Looks like that guy isn't following us. Let's go." Madoka followed, a thoughtful expression on her face.

They reentered the throng together. This time they walked side by side, hand in hand so as not to lose each other. Homura never quite realized how different walking was when she was holding onto someone else. She had to adjust her pace to match her partner's.

"Hey." The girl's fingers squeezed hers. "Is there anywhere you want to go? I feel like I've dragged you around the whole day, so I feel kind of bad. Especially about the hobby shop."

Homura watched her. "Yanagida said you usually bring someone else?"

Madoka nodded. "Yeah, my roommate. I bug her into coming, but she doesn't really like that sort of thing. Besides, she's been busy…I didn't feel like I could ask her to come today."

Something caught in Madoka's voice. But Homura didn't have the intuition to place it. So she chose not to ask.

"Don't feel bad. I had fun," Homura assured her. "I'll find something we can do."

As it turned out, there was a Kinokuniya a few blocks over. She preferred hole in the wall bookstores to chains, but it would have to do. Walking into the bookstore made her feel instantly at ease; people were allowed to talk, but it was still much more peaceful than the bustle of the street they had just left.

"A bookstore, huh? I guess that's like you," Madoka said, peeking out from behind her. "Is there anything you're reading at the moment?"

"Min-Jin Lee's _Free Food for Millionaires._"

"Why would millionaires need free food?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm reading it."

They drifted to the back of the store together before Homura started browsing anything. She liked to start from the back in big chains like Kinokuniya.

Madoka followed closely by Homura's elbow, occasionally picking out a book and flipping through it herself. They browsed quietly together for several minutes. Homura realized she didn't mind the girl's presence in moments like these.

"Do you have a favorite author?" Madoka asked suddenly.

Homura hummed as she put a book back on its shelf. "Not at the moment. It used to be Murakami, until I figured out that every college student's favorite author is Murakami."

Madoka smiled and pinched Homura's arm. "You're such a contrarian. What's wrong with liking the same author?"

"Well, I'm not like other people."

"You might be more like them than you think."

"Until that matters, I'll think otherwise."

"Mmm. Tell me about your favorite Murakami book."

"Well…some may disagree, but mine is _Norwegian_ _Wood."_

_"'I once had a girl…or should I say, she once had me?'"_ Madoka sang softly.

Homura smiled. "Named after the Beatles song, yes. It's set in the eighties, back when the student protests were happening. The protagonist is a student in university who meets two women he falls in love with. The interesting thing is that you can tell Murakami doesn't have much sympathy for the student movement. He's rather cynical about it all. In fact…" She trailed off. "This probably doesn't make much sense to you if you haven't read it."

Madoka waived her hand dismissively. "If you can listen to me prattle on about Yamato-class warships, I can listen to you talk about books by sentimental old men. Besides, I like hearing you excited about something. Keep going."

She didn't understand where Madoka got her patience and tolerance for others. Was it because she was afraid of being disliked? Or was it real? If it were Homura, she wouldn't care to hear someone ramble on about something she didn't understand. For anyone else, she wouldn't have stood in a dingy hobby shop in uptown Mitakihara listening to talk about anti-aircraft guns.

Was she special then? She didn't think so. Homura knew that was a dangerous way to consider things. Madoka was just as kind to everyone else, she was sure. She had to remind herself of that truth; she wasn't special. Not in the eyes of others, even if she wanted to be. She mustn't forget that.

Because if she didn't, she was afraid she would become trapped in the girl's embrace, like a fly in amber.

* * *

Homura ended up not buying anything at the Kinokuniya, but just being there was enough; it gave her a chance to recharge her batteries.

It was twilight when they emerged from the bookstore, wrapped in the thoughtful quietness that lingers after visiting such places. They walked to the station and took the train back downtown, parting ways soon after.

Madoka surprised Homura by pulling her into a full bodied hug. It lasted long enough that Homura felt obliged to hug her back. The warmth of the girl's body reminded her of something she had done her best to forget.

"Thanks for coming with me today," the girl murmured. "I had a lot of fun. Can I see you again soon?"

Homura responded with her usual standoffishness. "If you must."

Madoka smiled softly as she stepped back. "You always act meaner than you are."

_Quite the opposite, actually._

She waved goodbye and disappeared down the length of the street. Homura watched her go until she couldn't see her anymore. Madoka looked like a stray pink brushstroke against the evening canvas of blue and gray. That last bit of sunlight before the night.

Exam week came and went. Homura tried to absorb herself in the work. She studied throughout the day and wrote well into the night. No different than her usual days. But in the back of her head was the constant question of when Madoka would contact her again. It felt foreign, to wonder about someone else. Homura was used to living days of complete isolation, never once giving a thought to what other people were doing.

She couldn't forget Madoka's touch. Nothing about the girl in particular; merely the sensation of being held by someone else. Later that week she was consumed by a dream, one filled with emotion and dark passion. She woke covered in sweat and breathing heavily to an unassuming spring night. A name rose to her lips unbidden, but she bit it back at the last moment.

This was stupid. Had she always been this foolish? Some things were best left forgotten.

Every other day, whenever she had time, Homura took the train uptown to study for her exams. She chose a seat at the bookstore cafe across the street from the publishing building where she had spoken to Toby. Each time she spent hours there, keeping an eye on the building across the street as she studied. Preparing herself for what she was going to do.

Despite this, nothing happened during exam week. The person she was waiting for never emerged from those doors. Just as well. She didn't need the added stress on top of her tests. And she knew this wouldn't be easy; she could wait as long as it took.

She wondered how Madoka was finding her exams.

As soon as she thought this, her phone rang.

Her hand moved with a will of its own. She picked up the phone and pressed it to her ear.

"Hello?"

_"Hey…what are you up to?"_

"Just some light studying. I'm at home."

A brief silence on the other end, as Madoka weighed what she was going to say next. When she spoke, her voice tickled Homura's ear.

_"I want to see you."_

* * *

There was a pond near campus roughly in between their two apartments. It was not a particularly large pond; if Homura were to chuck a pebble as hard as she could from the bank, she might reach the far side. During the day young mothers brought their children to eat sandwiches and watch them chase ducks across the grass.

But it was empty at night. As Homura walked she passed only the occasional mischievous couple or lone man staring out across the surface of the water. Lamps lined the side of a stone path that snaked the perimeter of the pond, but beyond that it was only darkness.

Madoka was waiting beneath one of these pools of light, dressed only in a baggy hoodie and shorts. It seemed she had come straight from home in a hurry. The girl's usual side-ties were gone, her soft pink hair falling free around her shoulders.

She smiled tiredly as Homura approached.

"Hey…sorry to call you out on such short notice. Were you in the middle of something?"

Homura shook her head. "Like I said, just some light review. Nothing I can't do later."

"My roommate's not home right now." Madoka pressed on. "I've been alone in the apartment all day. I mean, it happens. I'm getting used to it, especially lately. But I just felt really bored, and I wanted to do something…and I thought about you. I wondered what you were doing. And I wanted to see you."

Homura watched Madoka very carefully, making sure the girl was done before offering her calculated response.

"That's okay. I don't mind."

Madoka smiled again, and turned away from her.

"Walk with me?"

They walked along the stone path that followed the bank. Every ten feet or so they would leave the light of a lamp and be swallowed by darkness until they drew near the next one. Instead of side by side, this time Homura walked behind Madoka, watching as the girl's silhouette switched from pink to black.

"How did you find your exams?" Homura asked.

"Ugh. _So _bad," Madoka laughed. "But no worse than expected. East Asian literature was a mess."

"It's really not that difficult."

"You said that before. I should have asked you to tutor me. I almost did."

"I wouldn't have minded helping you."

"I know…you're like that. Maybe I was afraid to rely on you again so soon."

Mundane conversation. Meaningless words. But beneath it all, an undercurrent of agony. It was the only way she could explain the jagged edges of Madoka's silhouette.

She wanted to know, but did not dare ask. Like a scientist, she did not wish to interfere too much in her experiment. This was a vacuum and Madoka was at its center. Homura was merely an observer.

They walked until they reached a roofed patio by the water. Homura took a seat at one of the benches, but Madoka remained standing, dragging the heel of her sandal against the concrete.

"I wanted to tell my roommate," Madoka said suddenly. She turned away and looked out at the black surface of the pond. "I was going to tell her everything. About my mom. About what happened."

Homura said nothing.

"But I couldn't." Madoka clenched her hands together behind her back. "Every time I got a chance, the words wouldn't come out. I barely see her anymore either. She's always out with her girlfriend. And I'm so happy for her. I don't want to ruin it. I don't want to burden her with my problems, problems she can't even solve."

Homura thought carefully before answering. "I think you have a right to be heard."

Madoka shook her head. "I know. I know, but I still couldn't say anything. I've always relied on her for everything growing up. But now she's got someone else and I don't want to get in the way of that. I realized how weak I am. I always need someone to protect me. I hate that about myself."

_Madoka Kaname is a nice girl._ The thought registered to Homura as a profound truth. It would probably remain true until the bitter end. Madoka was a nice girl. She would always blame herself before blaming others, even if none of the blame was hers to take. And therefore, she was doomed to a life of self-underestimation.

"And yet…" Madoka clutched her chest. "I feel so ugly inside. I feel rage. I want to scream at her. _Why can't you see something's wrong?_ All she does is talk about her girlfriend. She never asks about me. And home…I can't go home anymore. I can't face my mom. I can't face my dad or Tatsuya. Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up. Seeing her makes me feel things I've never felt before. It's all a lie. I feel hurt and betrayed. I feel abandoned. I've never felt so much hatred and bitterness. I didn't know it was possible. Homura, I'm scared of myself."

_No one made you put her on such a high pedestal. Why do you do that to yourself? Why purposefully make yourself dependent on someone else? I don't understand._

But Homura said none of these things, because some truths were too dangerous to be uttered. They would shatter the delicate illusion they had crafted together. Instead she got up and, after steeling herself, pulled Madoka into a tight embrace.

She didn't know how long she stood there letting Madoka cry into her shoulder. She felt split by two powerful emotions at once. Homura was consumed both by the urge to caress Madoka's head and crush the girl to dust in her arms.

_Which one is it? Do I hate her or pity her?_

"People are going to let you down," she said. "It's in their nature. You have to learn to live with it."

"But I still want to believe." Madoka lifted her head and looked Homura in the eye. Her soft pink iris looked like a small sun setting into the ocean of her tears. "I want to believe there are people out there who are kind, and strong. It doesn't have to be my best friend. It doesn't have to be my mom. Maybe it's someone else. Maybe it's you."

Self indulgence was a dangerous thing. In that moment Homura wanted nothing more than to believe Madoka's words. She wished she could throw all her plans out the window and dedicate herself to protecting this girl. This was the first time in her life someone had seen such good in her.

But no. She mustn't falter. Madoka was a naive girl, whose evaluation of Homura's character was based on nothing but lies. If anything, their relationship had only confirmed her longstanding believe that the weak and foolish always succumbed to being used by others.

Homura held fast to this belief as she walked Madoka home that night. She held fast as they embraced again and refused the girl's offer to stay the night, because she was afraid of what she might do. She held fast as she spent the rest of the next week at the cafe across from the publishing building, avoiding her phone like the plague.

_Madoka Kaname is a naive girl. Don't believe what she says about you._

Homura had almost convinced herself of this when she saw him.

A tall, lanky man with swept back hair and dark eyes.

_Sasaki Arata._

* * *

A/N

This is the part where I apologize for not updating for six months. Life got in the way, as it usually does. And I'll admit, I went through a period where I lost faith in the legitimacy of this story. In fact, I am still trying to find that faith. But I decided to keep going because I'm tired of being a writer who doesn't follow through on his ideas, even if they aren't my best. I will do my best to continue updating, whenever I can.

Feedback is greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading.

-Banshee


	7. Blood

Chapter Seven - Blood

Homura had never really thought about what she would do if she ever met the author of _The Glass Garden._

Sasaki Arata was the man who penned the story that changed her life. He felt more like an ethereal concept than another person. Even when she saw him on the rooftop of the _Midoriiro_, it didn't quite sink in who exactly she was looking at.

But now, as she tailed him down the streets of uptown Mitakihara, she felt a distinct sense of awe building up inside her. It was _him._ Sasaki Arata. How many times had she consumed his prose, dreamed of writing like him one day?

She used to have a heart condition when she was younger, though it didn't affect her so much anymore. But her pulse in that moment took her back to her childhood, when she was young and helpless.

_No._ Homura shook her head and slowed down long enough to take a deep breath. She wasn't helpless anymore.

It was late afternoon. The sidewalk was thick with people leaving their shifts. Homura watched as Arata's tall, lanky form disappeared inside a nearby coffee shop, the fancy kind that sprinkled dead leaves on your coffee and called it high class.

The inside of the cafe was swathed in soft whites and greens. Small potted plants hung from the ceiling and decorated the windows. It was the kind of place where the waiters came to you instead of the other way around.

Homura peered about and spotted a head of swept back hair ducking through the back entrance, where the cafe opened into a small outdoor seating area.

Her hand clutched the strap of her bag as she pursued him.

The seating area was a small enclosed space surrounded by greenery, sheltered from the white noise of the street. Arata selected an empty seat in the far corner. His eyes scanned the menu for a brief moment before he flipped it shut.

Just as he raised his hand for a waiter, Homura slipped quietly into the seat across from him.

"Good evening, Mr. Sasaki."

Sasaki Arata stared at her. Homura's heart jumped as their eyes met for the first time. Those eyes were dark and deep, like the forest at night. She had spent many years wondering about those eyes, and how they saw the world.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" He asked. His voice was deep and smooth.

"We aren't acquainted," Homura said. "But you could call me a fan."

Irritation flickered across his face. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't have any fans. You must have me mistaken for someone else. In any case, please leave me alone."

With that he pointedly propped up the menu between them. Through the corner of her eye Homura saw a waiter approaching their table.

"What I meant is that I read your work," she said quickly. "I am a great admirer of your story…that is, _The Glass Garden."_

Sasaki Arata blinked and slowly lowered the menu, peering at her over the top edge. Homura swallowed thickly, feeling nervous despite herself. It was taking all her will to remain calm.

The waiter arrived at their table, a young man with a close haircut.

"How may I help you, sir?"

Arata said nothing, instead continuing to watch Homura. Her eyes darted between him and the waiter, and she began to shift nervously in her seat.

"…sir?"

At last Arata sighed and set the menu aside.

"I'll have an Americano. And you, young lady. What would you like?"

Homura glanced up at the impatient looking waiter. "Oh, um…a cafe au lait, please."

The waiter jotted down their orders and nodded before disappearing back inside the cafe. Sasaki Arata crossed his arms and sat back in his chair.

"So, young lady. Who are you, exactly?"

Homura jumped at being addressed. Why was she so _nervous?_ "My name is…" her voice caught for a moment, and Arata raised his eyebrow. "…Sunako. My name is Sunako."

"And what did you want from me, Sunako?"

Homura inhaled deeply before proceeding. She did her best to ignore the thudding of her pulse.

"I've wanted to meet you for a very long time, Mr. Sasaki. I camped out at the lounge across the street from your building every day for the last two weeks, hoping to run into you."

Arata blinked. "Every day?"

"Yes, every day."

"Whatever for?"

"I am a great admirer of your work," Homura said. She leaned forward intently. "I first read the _Glass Garden_ years ago, and it remains a very important story to me. In fact, I could say it changed my life."

Arata raised his eyebrows. For a moment his hard expression softened. "You liked it that much?"

"I know every detail cover to cover. I've studied every page. Your story is the reason that I want to be a writer someday."

"I wrote it years…no, decades ago. I had almost forgotten about it."

Sasaki Arata studied her for a long moment. The look in his eyes was unfathomable. Homura offered a weak smile.

Then he scoffed abruptly and looked away, crossing his legs beneath the table. "So, is that it? You just wanted to express your admiration for my work?"

Homura shook her head profusely. "No. Well…yes, but that isn't all. You see, Mr. Sasaki, I am aware that you currently own Toshoukan Publishing. I also aspire to become a published author. In fact, I have been corresponding with an editor in your company for some time."

Arata tilted his head. "Really. Who?"

"Nakagawa Tobio."

Arata hummed under his breath. "Tobio…he's a bland guy, but good at what he does. He's been with us for a long time. But Sunako…I don't recognize your name. I thought I knew everyone new we have under contract."

"I am not officially affiliated with your company," Homura admitted. "He has been helping me…under the table, so to speak."

The man scoffed again. He seemed to enjoy scoffing. "Classic Tobio. He would be soft enough to help out an amateur when the company's in the middle of a crisis."

"I would ask that you not fault him," Homura said quickly. "To be frank, I pestered him into reviewing my work in the past…he merely gave in to my persistence. My involvement is no fault of his own."

"Alright, so he reviewed your work. What did he tell you?"

Homura looked down. "He said he only has time for actual clients now. And he did mention the company is undergoing some restructuring."

The waiter returned with their drinks. Sasaki Arata took a long draught from his. Homura simply stared into her own.

"Well, good to see he still has some common sense." His thumb traced the lip of his cup. Homura found the motion hypnotizing. "It's hard enough to make it in this business without handing out freebies."

"And that is precisely why I am here," Homura said. "I understand that I am young, and inexperienced. But I also understand that sometimes the most deserving writers never get to have their stories told. And so I wanted to ask you, Mr. Sasaki, as an admirer of your work, for your help and guidance."

"What sort of 'guidance' are you referring to?"

Homura bit her lip. "I understand you are a very busy man. My intention is not to burden you with my desires. Mr. Nakagawa, as you said, is good at what he does. I would like the opportunity to work under him to improve my manuscript."

Arata raised his hands in a shrugging motion. "He's already told you no. What do you expect me to do about it?"

"He works for you, does he not?"

His eyes narrowed. "No one works for me. I hired him because he's qualified to make his own decisions. And quite frankly, young lady, we only work with writers if we intend to publish their _already completed_ manuscripts. Do you have something finished and ready for review? My guess is that you don't, given your unconventional approach."

The words carried the harsh sting of the truth. Homura was smart enough to know she could say nothing to deny these facts. She could only show her sincerity.

Folding her hands in her lap, she bowed her head before Sasaki Arata.

"Everything is as you say. But Mr. Sasaki, I can't give up. It is partly because of you that I am here today. I can promise you that I take this very seriously."

"No," Arata said bluntly. "You aren't thinking about the resources and time that will be expended on your behalf. I don't know you. We just met today. I have no means by which to assess your marketability as a writer, no means other than the opinion of a trusted coworker, who apparently does not view your talents favorably. I see no reason for me to help you. What can you offer me in return?"

Homura lifted her head. "Nobody works harder than I do. And I truly believe what I am currently working on could be something very special. Please, if you could just have Mr. Nakagawa read it-"

Sasaki Arata palm slammed loudly against the table. Homura flinched at the sudden noise.

"Let me tell you something, young lady," he said. "Every writer - and I mean every last one - believes what they are 'currently working on' is the greatest thing to grace God's green earth. Believe me, I've heard it more times than I can count by now. What you don't realize is that this world is more unforgiving than you can imagine."

He downed the rest of his coffee and set the cup down with a loud clack. The nearby patrons looked over as he stood up, pinning Homura to her chair with his gaze.

Then he turned on his heel and left. Homura leapt out of her chair in pursuit.

Their surroundings became a blur as she chased him back through the interior of the shop and onto the street, now empty and cool in the belly of the evening.

"Mr. Sasaki-"

"Forget it, miss Sunako. Some things are best left forgotten."

Homura stopped behind him, clenching her fists. She was seized by the conviction that if she parted with Sasaki Arata now, she would never see him again.

"Even your story?" She asked.

Arata laughed mirthlessly. "Yes, even my story."

How could he say such a thing? To her that story was almost…no, it was everything. He simply didn't understand. He didn't know the impact he had on the lives of others. And because of that he couldn't understand how desperately she wanted this.

She thought about her manuscript. All the work she had put into it.

She thought about the purity of Madoka's smile, the will it had taken to lie to the girl's face again and again. And in that moment, she was filled with a powerful desperation. It was then that she acknowledged she had nothing else. Nothing but the farce she had built for herself. But it was a beautiful farce, one she could not let go of just yet.

"And Kaname Junko?" Homura shouted. "What about her?"

Sasaki Arata stopped dead in his tracks. When he turned around his gaze was withering.

"What did you just say?"

"Kaname Junko," she repeated. "The woman you are having an affair with."

Arata stormed up to her and grabbed her by the shoulder, so hard that she yelped in pain.

"You'd better be careful what you go around saying in public," he hissed. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"I have proof," Homura spat. She shook free and pulled something from her bag, shoving it in the man's face.

His eyes went wide.

A printed out photo of himself, planting a kiss upon the hand of a married woman.

Homura breathed heavily as she held the photo in front of Arata. Her pulse roared in her ears, but Arata was completely still, every bit the faceless mountain he seemed.

Then he snatched the photo from her hand, crumpling it in his fist. He seized Homura by the arm and hauled her into the alley behind the cafe, practically throwing her into its shadows.

"Just who the hell are you? How did you get this photo?" He demanded. Random passerby on the street cast worried glances at them. Homura gripped the strap of her bag, bracing herself for anything.

"I have more," she said flatly. She reached into her bag and produced a stack of photos. "If you would like to see them."

Arata grabbed the hand holding the photos and shoved it back inside the bag. "Don't take that out here!"

Homura found herself returning the mirthless laugh from earlier. "Will you hear me out properly now?"

A look of shock crossed Arata's face. He released her and took several steps back, until he was standing at the far side of the alley. Homura sank back against the wall herself, breathing heavily. Her long hair fell into a tangled mess around her face. But her eyes showed through with a brightness and hunger that unnerved him. The eyes of a lynx, hunting in the forest at night.

When Arata spoke again, his voice was hushed.

"I don't know who you are, or how you got those photos," he said. "And I don't care. You can't just waltz in and threaten me. I won't allow it. Do whatever you want with those photos. Even if you ruin me you'll be no closer to getting what you want."

He pushed himself off the wall and hurried out of the alleyway.

Homura stood alone in the darkness for what felt like an eternity, waiting for her breath to return. But her pulse remained deafening in her ears. Her legs gave out and she sank to the ground.

Her arm came up to cover her eyes. Despite it being night, the world felt blindingly bright.

_What the hell am I doing?_

* * *

At night the sun goes to sleep. But in the city, the sun is forever. The only darkness is the darkness people carry within themselves.

Junko had said that to him once. For some reason those words haunted him as he stalked through the city, doing his best not to run. He had the feeling that something was chasing him even though he obviously wasn't being pursued. His chest was seized by a sensation of impending doom.

The crumped up photo of himself and Junko stabbed the inside of his palm.

_She knows. She fucking knows. How the hell does she know?_

If a nameless young woman like her knew about the affair, then there was no guarantee there weren't others. The secret might have gotten out somehow without either of them knowing. Sunako was her name. What was her relationship with Junko? There were too many unknowns. He hadn't thought they would have to worry about anyone other than Junko's family.

Exhaustion fell over him, relentless.

Some distance from the cafe there was a small park that had been repurposed into a tourist location a few years prior. In the small garden within there was planted a set of artificial glass flowers, each exquisitely hand crafted. During the day they sparkled beneath the sun; at night, small batteries inside the petals powered a warm yellow light, so that the flowers glowed like a cluster of stars rising from the earth.

Arata stopped at a ramp that overlooked this glass garden, draping his arms over the railing. His eyes became unfocused as he stared into that golden pool of light. It was like the flowers were releasing the sunlight they had absorbed throughout the day. In the city the sun is forever.

He was startled from his trance by the ringing of his phone.

Junko.

For a moment he considered not answering. He didn't know what he would say to her about Sunako, or if he should say anything at all.

But he realized that above all else, he just wanted to hear her voice.

"Hello."

_"Good evening, sir. May I trouble you for some company this fine evening?"_

He snorted. "Don't talk to me like that."

He could practically see her sticking her tongue out. _ "I'm always very courteous to my clients."_

"Am I just a client to you?"

_"Officially speaking, yes."_

"And unofficially?"

_"You can ask me that in person later."_

Arata smiled against the phone. The warmth of her voice gave the garden beneath him a deeper color. "I have to head back to the office soon. I don't think we can meet tonight."

_"You sound tired. Everything alright?"_

"I'm fine." He could have left it there, but his voice carried further. "I'm just…in a bad mood. Irritable. I took it out on someone. I lost my temper."

_"That isn't like you. No company restructuring is easy. We'll get through it together. You'll see. I'm the best there is!"_

Some things were best left forgotten. And other things were best never remembered at all. This was all they could do, skate along the edges of the lake but never dare test the strength of the ice at its center. Lest they fall through and drown, strangled by the weight of a question they could never answer.

"You're better than the best." He switched his phone to the other ear. "Where are you right now?"

_"Walking to the station. I got bored and thought of you."_

"Tell me about what you see."

_"Well, there's this beautiful cake shop I just passed. My daughter likes to bake, actually. She once made this enormous thing for my birthday…"_

He closed his eyes and let the sound of Junko's voice wash over her. For a moment the rest of the world receded and it was just the two of them, connected across space time. He didn't care then if the sun was forever or never. Junko was enough.

He knew already that he was in love with this woman. He was old and experienced enough to admit it to himself. In a world he knew to be cruel and relentless, he would never hesitate to take a good and unsullied thing for himself.

It was true what he had said to Sunako in the alleyway. He hardly cared what would happen to him if she were to release those photos, post them on the Internet, send them to a news station, whatever.

He was restructuring the company in preparation to sell it to a large conglomerate in Tokyo. Once the deal was complete he would tell his employees, and then he would be gone. He planned to leave the company by the end of the year. After that he could care less what people thought of him, or his reputation or career or anything. Arata had always planned to retire in solitude.

But there was still one more thing he wanted to protect. Lifting his hand, he unraveled the crumpled photo of the two of them. She had an uncomfortable smile on her face, but he knew that was how she looked when she was bemused.

_"Arata, are you listening?"_

"Always."

Junko laughed. "_I don't believe you. You sound exhausted. Go home and get some rest."_

"If I told you to do that, you'd never listen."

_"That's why I'm the one saying it. Take care of yourself, or I will."_

Arata smiled. "I wouldn't mind that."

_"I bet you wouldn't. I'm at the station now. I'll talk to you later."_

He hung up. A single airplane cut across the night sky overhead, the lights at its wingtips blinking in rhythm with his pulse.

* * *

Homura didn't quite know what to do with herself. In the end she picked herself off the ground and went back into the cafe, reclaiming the table where her cafe au lait was still sitting, now stone cold.

The people inside stared as she sat back down. The coffee was bitter as it passed her lips. It occurred to her that Arata had left without paying.

As night fell, the cafe's patrons left one by one. Soon she was the only one left, sitting quietly by her empty coffee cup. A waiter took it while wiping down the tables, leaving a check behind.

She picked it up and glanced at the price.

_Jesus._

She hadn't been planning on using the photos at first. She had only wanted to use them as a last resort. In fact she was deathly afraid to use them. Blackmailing someone like Sasaki Arata was not something to be taken lightly. But in a moment of panic and despair she had acted on impulse.

_I thought I would be ready for the consequences. But what are the consequences now?_

She didn't know what to feel. Disappointment. Anger. Disgust, with herself. Betraying her idol, her hero, and for what? Nothing, in the end. All she got was to stare her own selfishness in the face.

Homura finished the rest of her coffee and stared sightlessly at the sky. A single airplane cut across overhead, the lights at its wingtips harsh and bright.

But she also felt a sense of relief. She was almost glad Arata walked away from her.

As she thought this, a silhouette appeared at the door to the seating area. Thinking it was the waiter, Homura reached for her wallet. But the silhouette quietly took the seat across the table.

Sasaki Arata.

"Let me ask you something," he said before she could react. "Do you know Junko personally? Do you have any relationship with her?"

Homura froze, unsure of what to say. She slowly shook her head.

"And you bear no grudge against her. Your only interest is using her as leverage over me. Is that correct?"

She nodded.

"Show me the photos. All of them."

She hesitated, then decided it should be fine. They were all backed up on her computer and her phone. Reaching into her bag, she produced the stack of photos and handed them over.

Arata took them and flipped through each one, his dark eyes scanning every photo with a chilling intensity. She waited for a long time, alone with him in the darkness.

Once he was finished he tucked the photos away inside his suit jacket. "I'll be taking these. I assume you have copies, anyway. Are these all the photos you have? There aren't any others?"

Homura thought hard about why that would matter. Perhaps it was merely a query fueled by paranoia.

"Yes, that's all of it," she said.

He studied her face for an uncomfortable amount of time. She had told the truth, but didn't know if he would be able to tell.

At last he looked away. "How do I know your demands will end here? Is working with Tobio really the only thing you want from me? Can you guarantee that?"

Homura narrowed her eyes. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Because I am going to accept your demands," Arata said. "I will instruct Tobio to work with you on your manuscript. And if it's good enough, it just may be published."

Her fist clenched beneath the table. This was it. The words she had been waiting to hear. She inhaled slowly and made sure not to stutter when she spoke.

"You seem to have had a change of heart."

"I didn't lie to you earlier," Arata said. "I don't care about my reputation or money anymore. There is nothing you can do to hurt me. But I will not allow any harm to come to her."

Homura smiled wanly. "Well, I suppose there is no way for me to guarantee my demands will end here. You have only word. Rest assured, Mr. Sasaki, I do not intend to ask anything more of you."

"Fine. I have no choice, regardless." Arata took out a pen and grabbed a napkin from the table, handing both to her. "Give me a way to contact you. Make something up, I don't care. If this goes as I prefer, I'll never have to use it."

Homura scribbled down the throwaway email she used to correspond with Toby. She handed the napkin to Arata, who slipped it in his pocket and rose to his feet.

"Tobio will be in contact within the week. He'll have questions, but I assume you've thought up a way around that. Is there anything else we should discuss?"

His eyes bored into hers. Homura returned the gaze, possessed by a mixture of fear and excitement.

"No, I don't believe so," she said.

"Then good night, miss Sunako."

Homura couldn't quite explain what she felt as she watched Sasaki Arata's silhouette recede into the shadows. Surprise, yes. Apprehension, certainly. But beneath that, something she would not have expected. The sense of relief from earlier washed away by something murkier.

Disappointment.

* * *

The days following her encounter with Sasaki Arata felt very much like a dream.

She returned home that night exhausted. The energy drained from her body and she was claimed by a deep sleep. When she woke she thought for a moment she had imagined the entire thing. But no, the photos were gone from her bag. It was real.

True to his word, within a few days she received an email from Toby.

_Sunako,_

_Looks like fate is smiling upon you at last. I've just gotten instructions from the company president's secretary. Apparently I'm officially your editor now. I didn't really get much in the way of details, but she said you would know what I'm talking about. I expect an explanation when I see you._

_Let's meet at your earliest convenience. When can you swing by the office? Don't worry, our air conditioner is working now._

_-Tobio (NOT Toby)_

Homura arranged to meet Toby later that week. In the meantime, she sent over what she had of her manuscript. He promised to have it read by the time she came.

It was a chilly wet morning when Homura borrowed Kyouko's bike without asking and pedaled her way uptown. The ride felt wholly surreal to her. The fog that clung to her skin only amplified the feeling.

At the front desk she said she had an appointment with Nakagawa Tobio. After calling upstairs to confirm the receptionist let her up without any resistance.

That was a first.

Takanashi Rikka was seated behind the reception desk on Toby's floor, just like last time. The woman glared sourly at Homura as she passed, but said nothing. It occurred to Homura that Toby had reached out to her personally instead of having Rikka doing it. She supposed that was best.

Toby was waiting for her in the office. She thought back to that boiling hot afternoon she had spent in here, listening to him tear into her story. How different it felt now. For starters it was cold that morning, so the air conditioner was off. Toby could have been lying about getting that fixed.

She briefly considered asking him to turn it on just to see, but dismissed the thought.

"Tea?" Toby asked as he poured himself a cup. Homura nodded and he brought another one over for her, placing it on the table. She cupped her hands around it as he sat with a huff.

"I've spent the week catching up on your work," he said. "I've gotta say, this is all very unusual. Our president is a pretty reclusive guy. People don't see him out and about very often, so you can imagine my surprise when he reached out to me personally. Or through his secretary, but that's about as personal as he usually gets."

She felt Toby eyeing her and took a sip of tea to cover her face. "I wouldn't know."

Toby raised an eyebrow. "If you don't know, who does? I hope you realize how strange this situation is, Sunako. Picking up a manuscript at the last minute, and an unfinished one at that. Especially now, with the state we're in…I get that it's technically not my business, but what happened?"

"I bombarded Mr. Sasaki with emails asking him to look at my manuscript," Homura said. "Which I am sure you can imagine, since that's how I got through to you. It seems my persistence paid off. I had no idea if it would work. I don't know him personally."

Toby rolled this over in his head for a bit. Homura sipped pointedly at her tea.

Finally he shrugged. "Well, your persistence is your strongest trait, I'll give you that. And Mr. Sasaki is nothing if not a good judge of talent. Here's something rare for you, Sunako. A compliment from me: I found your manuscript fascinating."

Homura blinked. "Really?"

"Yes. It's quite astonishing actually. Your technical skills were always there, but this story has _intrigue._ The characters feel much more alive, more grounded. You've had an empty house, now you're finally starting to put in the decor. I give you props for heeding my advice."

Homura smiled. "Aren't you giving yourself too much credit?"

"What are you talking about? Editors never get any credit. Do you know who Stephen King's editor is? Murakami's? Otsuichi's? Didn't think so. So let me gloat a bit."

As Homura rolled her eyes, Toby pulled out a huge stack of papers and slapped it on the table. Her manuscript, among other things.

"Here are some notes I jotted down from my first few read-throughs. Though there wasn't much I could do since I don't know how the rest of the story pans out. So now would be a good time for you to tell me about that."

The hot tea warmed her heart as she leaned in and began discussing her story with her editor. This was it, what she had been chasing. A chance to prove herself. A chance to learn something. A chance to be taken seriously.

They spent several hours talking that morning. She made fun of Toby often, but he really was good at his job. She left the office filled with insights on how her story could be improved, things she never would have thought of herself.

The printed copy of her manuscript was heavy with the red ink Toby had put into it, but the blood of her ideas didn't give her anxiety anymore. Now she was excited to see that blood. It was proof that her ideas were alive.

She thought often about the night at the cafe. Sasaki Arata was not quite as she had imagined him. He was more fiery, more easily angered than she thought. And he spoke about his story like it was dirt.

So was this really it? Homura found herself struggling with a sense of anticlimax. She had an editor now. If she put in good work perhaps she would even be published, at an astonishingly young age. And in all likelihood, she would never see Sasaki Arata ever again. There was no reason for her to. Even once this was all over.

_Once this is all over._ What about Madoka? Would she see her again? The question bothered her more than it should have. She hadn't really thought about what she would do after she was done writing her story. Quite frankly she doubted she would ever get this far.

The feeling of disappointment from that night never left her. Homura realized after some time that it was the disappointment of being right. When she held Madoka by the lake, for some inexplicable reason she almost wished she would be proved wrong. If not by Madoka then by someone else. But no one, not even Sasaki Arata, seemed capable of conquering that truth. People were weak and foolish, and they all used each other as they pleased.

Homura had learned that lesson herself the hard way. She tossed and turned in bed that night, chased by someone who wasn't there anymore.

The name she had tried to forget slipped through in a bout of fitful unrest.

_Asami._

* * *

A/N

Back sooner than expected! I guess the meme about fanfic authors writing more during quarantine is true. Might be one of the only good things to come from the situation.

Thank you for your wonderful comments on the last chapter! It was certainly motivating. I always read all the comments very carefully and they do have some influence on how the story gets written (though how much influence, I cannot say :P).

The true conflict of this story has now begun. Your feedback is greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading.

-Banshee


	8. Rondo, Rondo, Rondo

Chapter Eight - Rondo, Rondo, Rondo

Where does a story start? From the beginning, certainly. But sometimes one forgets the end of a story and the start of a new one.

Sasaki Arata was born in Kazamino, a city to the east of Mitakihara. When Arata was seventeen his upperclassmen graduated, and he came to realize some people only stayed friends because they saw each other every day.

When he was eighteen his classmates began to discuss their futures with one another, and the only common thread he sensed between all their destinies was their divergence.

So he came to learn that human relationships were inherently fragile, and easily broken. He supposed the great love stories were all tales of two people who could not accept this truth. At the beginning of time the universe exploded, and ever since it has been growing further apart from itself; such is the natural order of things.

He was not bothered by this. Sasaki Arata was not bothered by most things. In any case he had never been the leader of his friend circle; instead he chose to quietly observe, stabilizing the group through his presence alone. His friends often made fun of him, saying they could never tell what he was thinking. A closed system, independent from the vacuum of space.

He enjoyed reading and taking long jogs in the mornings. People didn't try to talk to him while he was doing those things. From a young age he exhibited a lack of interest in others. It wasn't as if he pushed people away; he spoke when spoken to and was polite and well mannered. But no one knew anything about him that they hadn't asked him first.

Upon graduating from high school he attended college at Mitakihara University. Back then it was not as common for high schoolers to go to college. Everyone assumed he had some grand aspiration that was beyond them because he had good grades, but really it was because he lacked any aspirations at all that he chose to go.

At Mitakihara he studied Japanese Literature and Accounting, the latter at his parents' behest. He wouldn't have chosen accounting himself, but they were paying for his education and he felt obligated to obey their wishes.

Life in Mitakihara was a challenge for him. Kazamino, while a city in its own right, was much more suburban and brotherly. A life within the steel walls of Mitakihara was one without rest or relent. It was difficult to spend a day doing nothing. The sounds of life leaving him behind could be clearly heard through his apartment window.

He came to appreciate the rare pockets of calm he could find in the city. The small park downtown, the brief stretch along the river that hadn't been developed yet (though it would be, years later). He needed these places, as trying to affect the world around him had always been very exhausting.

Other students often saw him sitting beneath the peach tree that grew on campus outside the literature department, a book propped open on his knee. He was an avid reader and always had been. He liked books that were dense and technically difficult, because he could lose himself within them. Perhaps because of this he gave off an air of unapproachability; no one ever tried to speak to him when he sat beneath the peach tree.

He did have friends, primarily in the literature department but also in accounting and even philosophy as well. He would often read his classmates' manuscripts and review them, primarily for structure or grammar. In the department he was known for his methodical and intentional style of work. He rarely reviewed anything to do with a manuscript's appeal as a story or its emotional impact. And his colleagues knew better than to ask.

He also came to appreciate the art of accounting over time, if only for the clean system of rigidity it introduced to the free flying world of money and human aspirations. And he did write in his own time, though not often or deeply. Nothing he penned in college exceeded the length of a short story. In his second year he switched majors from Japanese Literature to Linguistics, primarily because linguistics was a science and not an art.

By his fourth and final year Arata was largely adjusted to his life in Mitakihara. The car horns and sirens didn't bother him as much when he slept. And he had a reliable network of friends, though he knew better than to become too attached to them.

Over those four years he built for himself a life that was utterly self sustaining. Arata did spend many late nights studying in the library with friends, and even he courted girls and dated them or had sex with them, but the thought, _I want to do this forever, _never crossed his mind.

That year his graduating class left school at the height of a recession that gripped the entire country. No one was getting a job out of college, including his classmates in Linguistics and Japanese Literature.

Arata himself was lucky, as his father knew someone (who knew someone) in Mitakihara who had his own company and needed accounting help at a cheap rate. It seemed his parents had been wise to insist that he study it.

He was employed there for two years, and though he did good work and his colleagues were all very well mannered professionals, he couldn't say he ever fell in love with the job. It was just a way to put food on the table. Arata never wrote a single word during that time. Instead he would read or take long jogs by the river, listening to Satie or Bach. He was not so much a fan of Debussy or Ravel.

And so the days passed, quiet and still like the void of space.

* * *

One year after graduating from college, Arata was invited to a wedding.

He was surprised to receive the invitation; he was friends with the groom but not particularly close to him. They hadn't even spoken since graduation. The groom was from a rather wealthy family and had studied philosophy in the building next to his; Arata supposed they needed high attendance in order to maintain appearances.

The wedding was held on a gorgeous spring day in April, at a lakeside villa far from the chaos of Mitakihara. Arata wasn't quite sure why he didn't just decline the invitation. He supposed it was because he had nothing better to do. Nonetheless he put on his best suit and purchased a (relatively) cheap wedding gift before getting on the bullet train.

Attendance was extraordinary. There were about a hundred people, perhaps even more. Arata only actually spoke to the groom once, when he did the rounds to introduce everyone to his bride to be. He didn't recognize her face, though he supposed they could have passed each other before. It gave him an odd sense of detachment, to realize his friend had experienced an entire romance that Arata was never aware of.

He was seated at a table that appeared to be where all the fringe college acquaintances had been placed. Everyone at the table had a story to tell about the groom. Arata kept relatively quiet, only speaking when spoken to, and eventually the others gave up on trying to include him.

Once the formalities were taken care of, it was time for the wedding ceremony itself. Arata thought it quite strange that he would be present for arguably the most important moment of the groom's life. He was quite sure he and many others in the room would never see this man again in their lives.

The bride walked down the aisle and faced her husband. He raised her veil and kissed her. Arata found himself entranced by the way they looked into each other's eyes afterwards. It seemed to be a look of genuine love, but he didn't know for sure. He had never been in love.

The crowd rose to their feet and erupted in applause. Arata stood and clapped along with them.

As he did he was filled by an emotion he could not immediately describe. The roar of the crowd, the smile on the bride's face as she was led back down the aisle, this time as a married woman. The groom raised his arm and waved at everyone as he passed.

For a brief second Arata thought their eyes met, but he couldn't be sure. In any case the moment was quickly gone, and the intersection of their lives was complete, two asteroids pushed apart by an ever expanding universe.

That moment was something his friend had been building up to for his entire life. It occurred to Arata on the train back home. That wedding was the product of a quarter lifetime of human relationships. And even if it was manufactured, even if it was fake, it must have felt nice to see all those people in one place. Perhaps one would feel that they had managed to carve out their own place in the world.

That lovely spring day quickly receded into the past. Arata returned to Mitakihara and went back to work. But he never quite shook the feeling from that day, or the fear that he would never experience it himself.

* * *

Six months later his father passed away.

His parents had him relatively late, and were already in their late forties when Arata was born. The doctors had to perform a C-section on his mother because she was no longer capable of a normal delivery. A lifetime smoker, Arata's father caught a ravaging sickness after his sixtieth birthday that he never quite recovered from. Arata always told him to quite but the old man never listened. He spent the next few years in and out of the hospital, and a week before his son's twenty-fourth birthday he was past.

As such Arata was not particularly shocked by his father's death. Sasaki Arata was not bothered by most things. He attended the funeral and mourned alongside his mother, as a good son would. The funeral was otherwise attended by his father's old supervisor at work, the priest, and a childhood friend from junior high school.

That night Arata had a nightmare about a wedding that no one attended. He wondered who would be at his own funeral, and whether he had met all of them yet.

What did surprise him was when his mother died, only three months after her husband's funeral. She had no underlying health conditions that he was aware of. The woman simply passed away in her sleep, like an astronaut letting go to float away into the abyss. It seemed with her husband gone and her son grown, she could find no more reason to remain bound to life on this earth.

This time only he and the priest attended the funeral.

After that there was nothing else for him to do besides go back to work. His supervisor offered him paid leave that he didn't take. By then the recession was over and business was strong; Arata received a promotion and was able to move out of the tiny apartment he had occupied since first moving to Mitakihara, over six years ago now.

Some time after the company was bought up by a larger accounting firm, and his supervisor decided to retire. The old man who had taught Arata all he knew about the business was perhaps the closest thing he had to a friend at the time. They had dinner the night before he left to move back to the countryside, where his wife had family.

"I've been working for more than forty years," the old man told him over a steaming bowl of oxtail soup. "Sometimes you forget there's life after your career is over. I think I'll enjoy retirement. Don't forget the big picture, Arata. You work hard, and that's good. But think about what you're working for."

The waiter came by to deliver Arata's own serving of oxtail soup. It slid bitter down his throat.

Once the merger was complete, half of Arata's department was laid off due to redundancies. Many of the staff members he had spent the last two years working alongside moved elsewhere, to Tokyo or Kyoto or further to find new employment. He was reminded that some people only stayed friends because they saw each other every day.

That was the beginning of the end of his time there. He read every day and went on jogs like usual, but these activities were followed by an emptiness that hadn't been there before. He kept thinking about the spring wedding, and thought about reaching out to the groom, but didn't because he didn't know what he would say.

It was on a frigid morning in January, when he woke to an apartment still too new to feel familiar, that Arata realized he was lonely. His connections with others, though reasonably plentiful, were always fleeting. He seemed unable to bring himself to chase them, like a lone planet with no star.

He had lived thinking people were foolish to fight the inevitability of their separation. But perhaps he was the foolish one, for accepting his own isolation and yet still feeling this way.

He tried to live with the feeling, like he'd lived with everything else. But once acknowledged it would not leave him in peace. Every book, every commercial, every stray moment of eye contact reminded him of it. He supposed most people lived assuming they would be happy one day, until they realize nothing they've ever done has been conducive to achieving that happiness.

How was he to live the rest of his life? He didn't want to change, but he couldn't stand the thought of dying as he was. He was existing, but he wasn't living.

_Think about what you're working for._

In February he received a call from an agent at an insurance company. Apparently his parents had a significant life insurance policy that he was the beneficiary of. Arata was surprised to hear this; his parents had never mentioned anything about it, and he hadn't thought to ask. Due to this disconnect, it had taken some time for the insurance company to track him down. Despite being family, it seemed they hadn't known each other very well at all.

A meeting was scheduled, and paperwork was filed. Soon the money was deposited into his account. He spent a long time staring at his balance and wondering what he should do with the money. He supposed that was the curse of being free, that one could do anything and yet still do nothing.

Arata submitted his two weeks' notice later that month. The daily routine that was second nature to him had become cancerous. It all rang hollow with a lack of meaning. The office begged him to reconsider, but he had already decided to use the insurance proceeds to take some time off for himself. In the end he really did use the money to do nothing.

* * *

Arata did not initially plan to start writing again. It was perhaps merely a natural consequence of being left alone with his thoughts. He would go sit at his favorite spot by the river and simply stare at the water. It occurred to him that he was nothing without his work. Without it he had no reason to rise in the morning or retire early at night. Time ceased to matter. He was a closed system, independent from the vacuum of space.

He wished desperately for something that was his own. It didn't have to be a wedding or a wife. But maybe anything else was merely a substitute for the real thing. Perhaps because they were all meaningless on their own, people sought meaning in each other.

It was in this state of despair that Arata turned to writing.

It started as a slow trickle, working muscles that had long since atrophied. But once the torrent began it could not be stopped. He wrote first thing in the morning and well into the night. In the beginning all he wanted to do was give definite shape to his thoughts and emotions. Like accounting, like linguistics, perhaps he could create a system by which to live his own life.

At a summer festival that year, he found the inspiration for his first novel. He decided to attend on a whim, to take a break from writing. While there he passed a young girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, dressed in a kimono. She wore a mask over her face, as was common at these festivals.

He never quite figured out why that girl caught his eye. She was nobody to him; but perhaps because she was nobody she could have been anybody.

He hurried back home and began writing. The vision of a faceless girl wearing a mask would eventually become the defining motif of _The Glass Garden._

Perhaps because he had nothing else, Arata could allow himself to be consumed by this new undertaking. Because he was nobody, he could be anybody. He wished to write a story that would allow the reader to intimately understand his feelings at the time. Translate raw emotion into words and back again.

His inbox was filled with emails from his old supervisor, wondering how he was doing. But he did not respond to them. In fact he rarely spoke to anyone those days; Arata all but forgot the sound of his own voice.

He worked and worked. He worked with a desperation he had never felt before. He began to understand what his old supervisor had said to him over his bowl of oxtail soup, all those months ago.

It was almost winter again when he sat back and surveyed his first completed novel. After finishing the first draft he slaved over even the most minute details, making thousands of changes by the light of his electric heater. In the end it was not a particularly long story, but he had never been a very verbose writer.

He could not name the emotion he felt upon its completion. It was the same emotion he thought the groom must have had at the wedding. His first quarter-century of life, packed into just over sixty thousand words.

Seized by an odd compulsion, he walked to the corner store that night to buy a pack of cigarettes and smoked a few. He didn't smoke, and in fact had always avoided it after what it did to his father's health. But he thought he understood why the old man could never shake the habit. It was oddly comforting, like he wasn't spending the night alone.

* * *

After completing his novel, Arata prepared to send it to publication companies. He wanted his story out there. He wanted people to read it and catch a glimpse of the piece of his soul he had put inside. Having spent twenty five years hiding himself from the rest of the world, he would now attempt to expose his entire being.

He looked up every single publisher in Mitakihara, Kazamino and two other neighboring cities and sent his manuscript to each one. As an amateur with little notable publication credits (the few he did have were from college) he would have to go for volume. Surely one of these firms would pick up his work.

It took two weeks before any responses came back. And once the first one was in, they all seemed to come at once. Arata found his inbox stuffed with responses from the countless publications he had reached out to. He clicked eagerly through each one, eyes hungrily scanning the screen.

All rejections. Every single one. Some, he knew, must have said no without even reading the manuscript.

Not to be deterred, Arata went to his local library and printed out several copies of his manuscript. He put on his best suit and called ahead to ask for appointments at every publication reachable by subway. A few of them reluctantly agreed to grant him an audience, and he hopped on the next train to their office, awkwardly clutching his manilla envelope in his lap.

Some of the meetings were only held so they could say no politely to his face. In fewer still, the editors actually explained to him why they hadn't accepted his work.

_"If you will allow me to speak freely, Mr. Sasaki…the staff here found it to be a very strange story. Many of us couldn't relate to it, myself included. That is not to say unique stories cannot be successful. But, how to put it…we believe one must be able to find themselves in a story for it to succeed. Unfortunately that could not be said of yours. But I will say that no one here had any complaints about your technical abilities. As you seem to be an amateur, we encourage you to keep writing, and reach out to us again when the time comes."_

The others all said the same thing in different ways. Some were more blunt with their approach: _This isn't what we're looking to add to our catalogue. It won't sell._

The manilla envelope was heavy in his hands as he walked quietly home. How jarring, to feel like he had written the most wonderful thing in the world, only to be told it was strange and unmarketable.

As the rejections kept coming, the sadness inside him grew.

Arata began to feel a bitter hatred for the anime-inspired light novels and comic books sold at a sickening rate in convenience stores and airports. The cheap pop music they pumped through the radio like sewage, and the weird formless blobs that passed for art in the modern age. Shallow work, barely distinguishable from the material that inspired it. And yet high school boys fought over who would get to read the latest issue first, listen to the newest CD.

He supposed that must mean his story was worth even less than that.

_Keep writing, and reach out to us again when the time comes._ Arata didn't know if he would ever write again. He came to realize he had no particular passion for writing on its own. It was simply the most full realized method he had to express himself. He did not write for writing's sake. And he did not know if he would ever be able to muster such emotion again in his life.

After a month one of the publications reached out to him again for a second meeting. Hope flared within him, and he hurried over to their office. But upon arriving he found they had made substantial edits to his work, and wanted to release it alongside several other stories as part of a niche collection.

Even that he could have stomached, but when he read their version of his story it was unrecognizable. It was a completely different thing.

He threw the papers down and walked out.

That night he got stupidly drunk at a bar and walked to the river to cool his head. But the usual spot by the water he frequented was blocked off by tape and signs. _Construction in progress. _

Instead he walked aimlessly through the city, and ended up at a park where a young girl was singing while playing her guitar. Arata collapsed onto a bench nearby and watched her quietly. The girl played passionately, straining her voice to be heard over the crowd. She had a good voice, but she was nothing special. Nonetheless people tossed coins into her open guitar case in passing, out of either appreciation or sympathy.

He realized then that more people had heard this nameless girl's song than had read his story. The thought filled him with an incomprehensible rage. Not at the girl, not at anyone in particular; it was a truly blind rage. But he clung to it, he clung to the anger because he didn't want to go back to feeling nothing about everything. In his drunken state he figured it better to live a life fueled by rage than by nothing at all.

So he went back to his apartment and found a company online that offered self publication services. He ordered one hundred copies of his own book before falling into a long and deep sleep.

When he woke he tried to pretend the night before was just a bad dream. But a week later the books were delivered to his apartment. And even worse, the girl's song was stuck in his head.

* * *

Arata had never felt quite as stupid as when he had to haul in a hundred books no one wanted into his apartment. In the end he made a boxy chair out of them and sat on it, panting heavily.

A deep shame filled him in that moment. Shame for wasting a year of his life, for being excited about something no one cared about. He knew it must be akin to the shame of loving someone who did not love you back.

In the end he donated almost all the books to a local library. He knew no one else would take them, and in any case he had too much pride to try selling them on the street like a peddler. The librarians gave him odd looks when he wheeled in a suitcase stuffed with dozens of copies of the same book, but he ignored them. They told him they couldn't possibly keep them all, to which he said fine, send them around the whole damn country for all I care.

He did keep a few for himself. For safekeeping? Nostalgia? He didn't know. Nevertheless they were put in the back of his closet, where they gathered dust over the years.

He had now spent an entire year without working. Though he had the savings to go for a while longer, not to mention the life insurance proceeds, he knew this life would not be sustainable any more. Without his story to work on every day, time would cease to matter again. And perhaps he would sink back into his old self.

Funnily enough, one of the publication companies he had sent his manuscript to had a job opening for an accountant. He heard about it at their office, briefly mentioned to him during a conversation with the secretary in a waiting room.

He applied on a whim, but he actually did get a call back. Almost immediately, in fact. The irony of this was not lost on him.

The interview went smoothly. Regarding his year of absence, he merely said his parents were both of ailing health and he had taken time off to care for them. The accounting department did not seem privy to the goings on of the editing department, because they believed this lie readily.

He worked there for five years. During this time he lived very differently than he had previously. He made an effort to connect with his colleagues and appease his supervisors. If the department was holding a drinking party, he would go. If they tried to set him up on dates he willingly went on them (though little ever came of these). Because of this he was quickly accepted by them and considered a good friend, albeit one who didn't talk about himself much.

He did this because he could never forget the aching loneliness he felt before. It was wrong of him to look down on the sadness of those saying goodbye. The rage he felt that night in the park drove him to change.

In those five years he worked diligently in his assigned role, but also sought to find answers regarding his rejection. He often took the elevator down to the editing department during lunch breaks, and asked to shadow whoever was available. The staff members were visibly confused by this, as he was an older man (almost thirty now) and even senior to some of them. But they consented nonetheless, and eventually even gave him some work to do, provided it wasn't too important.

Arata quickly came to understand why his story would never have been published. In the first place it wasn't in a genre that was popular at the time. Publication was a low margin business, and a single bad quarter could sink some companies. _The Glass Garden_ was neither trendy nor attached to a household name.

Furthermore, after reading countless manuscript submissions over the years Arata came to find just how unconventional his approach to novel writing had been. It was an utterly strange story, indeed.

Yet the anger from all those years ago never faded. It simply cooled into a fine obsidian blade. He wondered how many life changing stories had been buried for practical or conventional reasons.

But he was just a hypocrite, because that was all he ever did in college, and it was what he did for a living now.

After those five years, his company got caught up in an antitrust legislation case. Theirs was just one branch of a large national multimedia conglomerate; the government didn't like how big they were getting and ordered some divisions to be spun off.

Perhaps due to their lower margins, the publication branch was spun off almost immediately. He understood; had he seen the numbers he might have made the same decision. But it didn't change how cheap it made his coworkers feel, or himself.

By then he had risen to a relatively senior position within the company. At thirty one years of age he was still rather young, but many of the executives older than him had jumped ship and gone elsewhere once they caught wind of the antitrust case. When they were spun off the president chose to retire, and he tapped Arata as his successor.

He was shocked by the decision. He was on the executive board, certainly, but to lead at firm, even a small one, at such a young age was exceedingly rare.

But the rest of the office seemed to approve of the choice. And he didn't want to let them down, so he accepted the position. After six months of financial review, the publication branch became its own standalone company.

And thus Toshoukan Publishing was born.

* * *

Arata quickly came to realize why leadership had fallen to him and not someone more experienced. It was because everyone else expected the company to fail, and so no one else was willing to take the position.

Their financial situation was bad. Now that they were on their own, it became that much harder to get a loan. It became painfully clear that if they were going to dig themselves out of this hole, it was going to be through endless hard work.

So Arata worked. He worked harder and more relentlessly than he ever had in his life. His days started before the sun and ended long after it was gone. There was a seemingly endless amount of things to be done: clients to persuade, costs to cut, meetings to hold.

He became very much like a machine for the better part of three years, and his work came to define his life. But he was strangely at peace with this, perhaps because he did not want to let go of the first place where he could say he had friends and a history. Even if it was for stupid personal reasons, he didn't want them to go under.

And he had help. Despite the fact that he made the severity of their situation quite clearly known (he was not interested in being the kind of leader who hid behind his desk), many of his colleagues chose to stay partially out of loyalty to him. They too wished to preserve this place they had built together.

So they worked. They worked and worked, burning through countless nights together in pursuit of a common goal. It reminded him somewhat of his college days, though those were much simpler times.

After three long years, they were finally able to pull themselves out of their steep decline. What followed was a string of good years. They were receiving plenty of high quality manuscripts, and their publications did well.

Many of his colleagues told him then that they were glad they chose to stick it out with him. They began to speak of those three hellish years as a thing of the past. But Arata knew people often forgot the end of a story and the beginning of a new one. And though morale was high and his employees all seemed to respect and admire him, they didn't know the real Sasaki Arata. They only knew the consumable version of himself he had built in order to survive in this world. And so the people closest to him also felt impossibly far away.

Arata's prediction inevitably came true. Print publication began to die out, replaced by more enticing things like the Internet. The world was changing rapidly and they couldn't keep up. It was the beginning of a slow five year decline for their business, one they were powerless to stop.

And so he passed eighteen years with the company. He was now fifty one years old. By now he was no longer surprised by the truth that all things come to an end, and nothing is really sacred.

Every day he killed manuscripts because he knew they wouldn't sell. Every day they lost money and he had to lay someone off who had a family he had met and shared dinner with. But it was all he knew, it was all he could do. Perhaps that is the true curse of being free, that one can do anything and choose to do something, only to wish they had done nothing.

Meanwhile, the aching loneliness inside him returned. Like a musician's rondo, it was inescapable. He came to realize he could never be a true friend to people who expected him to lead them. And romance, though nice to dream about, felt impossible for him at his stage in life. He hadn't known it was possible to feel lonely while not alone. In the end he wondered just what he had done with his life, what it was all for, if he had no one to tell about it.

The takeover offer came on a cloudy day in April. A large conglomerate in Tokyo wanted to buy the company to be merged into their existing operations. It was perhaps his last chance to extract some value from their assets before they became totally worthless. It seemed nothing really belonged to anybody, in the end. Ultimately it belonged to whoever had the most money.

They hired a third-party consulting firm to handle the financials. Emails were sent and engagement letters were signed.

Sasaki Arata waited quietly in his conference room for the beginning of the end.

The heavy wooden doors across from him swung open, admitting a single figure into the room.

A woman with mallow colored hair, wearing lipstick to match.

* * *

A/N

To be honest, I really struggled with writing this chapter, which is why it took so long to get it out. But after writing and rewriting different parts of it multiple times, I hope I managed to make Arata's life story (until now) engaging for you to read.

Thank you for all the comments on the previous chapter! They really help to keep me motivated. As a side note, when I dropped the name "Asami" last time I thought jokingly that people would assume I meant either the character from Kazumi Magica or To the Stars. As it turned out I had people thinking both things, both on FF.N and AO3.

Thanks for reading!

-Banshee


	9. Wide Awake

Chapter Nine - Wide Awake

Homura and Kyouko typically took turns paying rent. They stuffed the monthly check in an envelope before sending it to the leasing office, who never bothered to confirm whether they'd received anything or not. She supposed by virtue of the fact that they had not been evicted, the mail was being delivered properly.

Because of this she rarely if ever checked her mailbox herself. All they ever got were stupid travel brochures and phony interest rate offers from banks. Homura didn't have any family who'd want to send her anything, and as she far as she knew neither did Kyouko.

So she didn't quite know what to expect when Kyouko went to pay rent and came back with a small white envelope in her hand, tossing it on the coffee table in passing.

"Here. It's for you."

Homura blinked, putting a hand over the envelope. "What is it?"

"How am I supposed to know? None of my business," Kyouko said shortly before retreating into her room. She was blasting rock music again, which Homura was very public about hating.

Clucking her tongue, she flipped the envelope over and scanned its surface.

Her eyes grew dim when she saw who it was from.

She rose and retreated to her room, pulling the door shut behind her. With a pen she tore open the flap of the envelope and extracted its contents. A couple sheets of elegant stationery that smelled faintly of flowers.

Homura read the letter quietly, accompanied by the strains of "Paradise City" from the wall she shared with Kyouko. It didn't take very long, but to her it felt like an eternity and a half.

A soft spring breeze slipped through her open window. Nostalgia was a sad thing because it came hand in hand with loss. She didn't know whether to tear the letter to shreds or hold it close to her chest.

In the end she slipped it into her desk drawer, all the way to the back where she wouldn't see it without meaning to.

That letter reawakened a deep rage she had thought dead and buried. The disappointment she felt that night in the cafe never left her. Those two emotions followed her to her subsequent meetings with Toby, the echoing mundanity of her classes, and her fleeting moments with Madoka. As the spring wore on and summer approached she found herself growing increasingly angry, filled with a desire for destruction so visceral it kept her up at night.

It was all Asami's fault. If not for her, perhaps Homura would have succeeded in deluding herself into believing things were fine as they were.

Her manuscript had developed to a point where she knew more or less how the rest of the story would play out. It was becoming increasingly apparent that there was no real reason for her to continue her involvement with Madoka. In fact, it may be prudent to distance herself from any potential fallout from the affair.

Doing so would inevitably devastate Madoka. Homura knew this and hated herself for it. But she also hated Madoka for it equally.

"Hey," Toby said, "Are you okay?"

Homura blinked and realized she was gripping the handle of her mug so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She released it gingerly and hid her hands beneath the table.

"Just fine."

"You sure? You look like you're going to be sick."

"I'm fine, Toby. Just haven't slept well lately. I am still in school, as you know."

Toby eyed her, then shrugged. "Well, alright. Let me know if you need anything though, okay? Can't have one of my clients keeling over…but anyways, like I was saying, this line here…"

It was becoming increasingly difficult to hide the secret from Madoka. The girl simply wanted to spend all of her available free time with Homura, whether it was in the mornings or nights or weekdays or weekends. She had to keep making up excuses for why she was busy when she was meeting Toby, because she didn't even want to mention her manuscript to Madoka in the first place.

Not to mention that spending time with Madoka at all was becoming more painful by the day. Every laugh, every smile, every stray moment of eye contact or fingers brushing across her arm, all of it sent a twinge of guilt down her spine.

Afternoon visits to Yanagida's shop. Evenings spent in family restaurants talking about nothing in particular. Late nights spent on the phone, where Madoka's wish was not to speak but simply enjoy each other's presence. Sometimes Madoka looked at her a certain way and Homura knew she must have looked at Asami that same way, in a time now past. And the shame, the rage became so great she didn't know what to do with herself.

Homura carried this rage into the waning days of spring. She knew she had to act before she fell to pieces. But betraying Madoka threatened to do just that.

After one particularly exhausting meeting with Toby, Homura exited the elevator to find someone waiting for her.

Sasaki Arata motioned for her to follow, before turning and melding into the crowd.

* * *

Madoka needed to be busy on Saturday.

She needed to be busy because she knew her mother had the day off. A rare day off for everybody's Junko Kaname. But she knew a day off from work didn't mean a day of doing nothing for her mother. No, it meant family outings, dates to restaurants or shopping outlets with her daughter. Sometimes they would just pile into the car and go for long drives, just to spend some quality time. Junko was very big on quality time.

The thought of being alone in a car with her mother made her want to vomit. She couldn't handle it. She didn't want to bring herself closer to the inevitable painful end. She wanted peace, she wanted understanding. She wanted Homura.

So on Saturday morning she called Homura's number as she always did, waiting impatiently with her phone pressed to her ear.

"_…Hello?"_

"Hey, it's me." A smile crept onto Madoka's face at the sound of her friend's voice. "Are you free today?"

"_Um…"_ Madoka thought she heard the sound of a crowd, or at least several pairs of feet on a hard floor. "_Not at the moment, I'm afraid. Sort of in the middle of something."_

"Oh. Will you be free later? I'm available all day, as long as I get some work done."

_"Sorry, Madoka. I don't know when I'll be done. We'll do something next time, okay?"_

Homura sounded like she really was in a hurry. The beginnings of a pout formed on Madoka's lips, but she quashed it with a smile. "That's totally fine, Homura. Just let me know! I'll talk to you later."

_"Talk to you later."_

Madoka hung up and dropped her phone on the bed before falling into it herself, staring at the ceiling. She suddenly felt very alone. She didn't want to call Sayaka, and seeing any of her university friends would feel too shallow, too artificial.

Almost as if on cue, a knock came from Madoka's bedroom door.

* * *

When Madoka was much younger, she often had trouble sleeping. The doctor said it was because she had a very active mind, whatever that meant. There were many nights where she would lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling until the sun peeked over the horizon. It started when she was in elementary school and continued sporadically into her high school years, when she finally learned to control it.

One place where she did fall asleep easily was, strangely enough, the back seat of a car. Being in a vehicle often made kids sick or uneasy at her age, but Madoka would always doze off on the way to and from school. Something about the gentle hum of the engine, the soft vertigo when the car made a turn, sent her under without exception.

Whenever she had trouble sleeping as a child Junko would put her in the back seat of the car and drive around the neighborhood at night, for as long as it took for Madoka to fall asleep. Once she had, her mother would drive home and carry her daughter upstairs princess style, tucking her into bed before retiring herself.

Sometimes they would talk about trivial things, meaningless conversations between an adult and a small child. Other times they said nothing. Madoka would open the car window and close her eyes as the cool night air swept across her face, lulling her to sleep. Junko's reassuring presence in the front seat, the small glow of the dashboard and the soft click of the turn signal. These were the sights and sounds of her childhood.

In retrospect, she had always seen her mother in that manner. The one behind the wheel, dictating where they would go and how they would end up. She couldn't fall asleep without her mother. She didn't feel safe without her mother. She wanted to need her mother, and perhaps because of that she convinced herself that Junko was perfect, that she was everything.

Once Madoka got old enough, driving around the neighborhood at night stopped working. She would sit wide awake in the back seat, but pretend to be asleep when they returned home. And eventually, she did learn how to fall asleep normally.

But she only did it because she had to. Madoka didn't know if there was shame in that. But she felt shame nonetheless.

* * *

"I can't say I expected to see you again so soon," Homura said.

Arata crossed his arms. "Believe me, if I had my way you wouldn't."

They were standing on the roof of the Toshoukan Publishing building. It was one of those roofs no one was supposed to go onto, but Homura supposed the company president enjoyed free rein over the building. Arata stayed near the door as Homura walked up to the edge of the railing, placing a hand on the corroded metal.

"You know, this isn't the best spot to stage a murder," Homura said blandly. She peered over the railing at the crowded street below. "Although the fall is certainly high enough to kill me."

Arata shook his head. "You're insufferable. Not that I didn't know, but you really are a piece of work."

"What is it that you want, Mr. Sasaki?"

"I read your manuscript." Homura went still as the man's eyes bored into her. "Call it curiosity. And call it my projection or an interpretation, but I'm pretty sure you were inspired by a _certain something_."

Homura smiled at him. "Well, I'm flattered you took the time to read my work. Did you enjoy it?"

"It was rather well written. But I hated it."

"Hmm. I wonder why."

"You can't profit off something you're already blackmailing me for," Arata snapped. "First you use Junko to get me under your thumb, and now you're writing a novel about us. Do you have no shame?"

"Oh, Mr. Sasaki. It is not a direct retelling of your experience. I am not privy to the details of your affair with Junko Kaname. That is simply my version of events."

"And I suppose you don't care how I might feel knowing that story's out there? Or what would happen if Junko ever got her hands on it? You're messed up in the head. I can't fathom you."

Homura sighed, leaning her back against the railing. "Mr. Sasaki, I am being honest when I say it isn't personal in the slightest. It was simply an interesting story, and I decided to tell it."

Arata narrowed his eyes. "It's personal to me."

"That's not my problem." Homura's fingers clenched around the metal railing. "And in any case you are in no position to prevent the publication of my story. Only Toby can do that, and between you and me, he enjoys the story very much."

She left the railing and brushed past him, heading for the door. Arata stood with his fists clenched inside the pockets of his suit, and did not speak until she had passed him.

"Do you enjoy going about things this way?" He asked. "Using people as you please? It's no way to live."

Homura paused with the hand on the door handle.

"What business do you have telling me how to live my life?" She said without turning to face him. "Maybe instead of complaining about being used you shouldn't have put yourself in a position to be used. People like me are always going to exist."

She threw the door aside and disappeared down the steps. Arata was left staring at the yawning gap of the stairwell, until the vertigo became too much and he had to step away.

That same rage from fifteen years ago returned to him, cold and discriminate.

* * *

A new boardwalk had been under construction alongside the river, and was now completed and open for visitation, complete with expensive restaurants and trails for Instagram models to get their fix. Junko tasked Madoka with looking up a good place to have brunch as she peeled her way uptown in her sleek sports car.

Madoka's mind was a mess as she sat in the passenger seat, absently thumbing through a series of Yelp reviews. She had no idea how she was supposed to act in front of Junko. She knew she was no good at hiding her emotions from others. What if it became too obvious that something was wrong?

"I feel like it's been forever since we've done something together," Junko said. "I'd say some mother-daughter time is longer overdue, wouldn't you?"

Madoka just cracked a weak smile. Her mother eyed her for a moment before returning her attention to the road.

"So, how is school going?" She asked. "Have you met any cute boys in your classes yet?"

"School's going fine. I have friends to help me with the hard stuff," Madoka said. "And I don't…really talk to boys."

"Oh, don't be like that. I know you're shy, Madoka, but it does get harder to meet people after you leave school. It really does. I'm lucky I met your father early in life. But I had my fun when I was young! I really was a pretty reckless kid. I'm glad you take after your father more than me. But I think there are certain mistakes that are okay to make when you're still young. Otherwise you make them when you're older, which isn't okay. You know?"

Junko cast her a sidelong glance. Madoka simply smiled back at her mother, but said nothing.

The boardwalk was picturesque with the river as its backdrop. It was packed with students playing hooky and adults trying to escape reality, however briefly. The two of them started at the very end and walked their way along the wooden path, doing some casual window shopping and pointing out this and that.

Junko still did most of the talking. Madoka hung a few steps behind her mother, smiling and answering briefly when addressed. She could tell Junko was beginning to catch on to her strange demeanor. She knew she had to do something, act or lie or tell the truth, _something_, but she didn't know what was right. She didn't know how to act without hurting someone.

A flock of seagulls cawed overhead, their long wings outstretched to ride the late morning winds. Their small beady eyes watched the food stalls and small children clutching hot dogs and sundaes, waiting patiently for the right moment to strike.

"You know, I've never been very fond of birds," Junko remarked while eyeing the seagulls. "They always seem smarter than they let on. And they see the world differently than us, all the way up there. They've always made me a little nervous."

When Madoka said nothing in response, Junko stopped and turned to her daughter.

"Madoka, is something the matter? You're being awfully quiet. If you're feeling sick, we can head home for today. We'll find some other time."

Madoka's lips parted but nothing came forth. Junko tilted her head.

After a long moment Madoka closed eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them it was with a smile, as she walked forward and took her mother's hand.

"It's nothing, Mama. I'm just a little tired from school. Let's go."

Junko smiled and squeezed her daughter's hand.

The boardwalk was packed with intruiging sights and smells. Long sticks of fried batter covered in all sorts of sauces and toppings that made them salivate. Kids chased each other across the platform with plastic toys bought at one of the stalls. Store owners shouted their promotions from the sides, the seagulls screeching to drown them out.

They entered a small clothing store about halfway up the boardwalk, where Junko picked out a chic women's fedora and struck a pose. Madoka laughed and picked up a fedora of her own, and the two of them proceeded to make weird gestures and faces in the mirror until the store owner got annoyed and asked them to leave.

Next was a stall selling churros well over a foot long. Junko bought six and challenged Madoka to an eating contest. Madoka barely finished one before she got a stomachache. Junko, meanwhile, made it through three and would have finished the rest if Madoka didn't stop her. They ended up giving the last two to a couple kids, who promptly began using them in a mock sword fight.

"Oh, look. Now they're going to waste," Junko sighed. "Two perfectly good churros."

"What are you saying after eating three feet of churros in ten minutes?" Madoka scoffed, poking Junko's stomach. "How do you even fit so much food in there?"

Her mother stuck her tongue out at her. "I work super hard every day! If I want to eat three feet of churros I'm gonna do it!"

Madoka laughed. "I wish I'd inherited your metabolism, Mama. If I ate as much as you I'd get all pudgy."

"There's nothing wrong with that! Plenty of guys like pudgy girls."

"There's no way! Would Papa prefer if you were pudgy then?"

Junko rolled her eyes. "Oh, I wouldn't know."

They ended up spending the entire day by the boardwalk. During dinner Junko ordered a few beers and shared some with Madoka, despite the latter's insistence that she shouldn't.

"Mama! I'm underage!" Madoka said in a hushed voice, glancing around nervously.

Junko laughed, her cheeks already flushed from drinking. "Oh, it's fine Madoka. You're with me. Every lady needs to know how to hold her liquor!"

Madoka sighed and accepted the glass from her mother, taking a few guarded sips. It burned a hot trail down her throat before frothing about in her stomach. She just couldn't get used to the taste of alcohol; even she had admittedly tried it a couple times, at parties she got dragged along to by her friends. She was honestly more afraid of what it might make her do. Madoka had seen people make fools out of themselves at parties before.

Junko exhaled slowly and she swirled her glass around. "But still, to think you're old enough to drink with me now…you've grown up, Madoka."

"I'm technically not," Madoka pointed out.

Her mother waved her hand. "Let's not sweat the details."

After dinner they left the confines of the boardwalk and took a stroll by the riverbank, where dandelions flowered amongst the tall grass and catnips hugging the water. It was dark now and the moon glimmered behind a cloud in the sky. Their silhouettes glowed a soft silver as they took off their shoes and walked beneath that moon, enjoying the soft coolness of the grass between their toes.

It reminded Madoka of the camping trips her father was fond of taking them on in the past. Junko was never very savvy with wilderness or outdoor living but she did love nature, and Madoka had many cherished memories of going on hikes and wooded adventures with her. Thinking about that brought her back to a much simpler time, and for a moment she thought she might cry, seized as she was by a sudden rush of emotion.

"Mama, how has Papa been lately? Have you spent time with him recently?"

It sort of just slipped out. Maybe it was the alcohol. Her face felt warm, her brain awash in tingles. But did alcohol make one do anything they didn't already wish to do? Maybe it just gave them the courage, or the foolhardiness, to act.

Junko's shoes clicked softly against each other as she walked. "To be honest…I haven't spoken to him in a few days. I get home so late, he sleeps so early…and besides, it's a big house."

"You don't call him? Text, even?"

Junko laughed guiltily. "I could do a better job keeping up with him, that's for sure. But we're both our own people. He knows how he wants to live his life, as do I. And I know he does a good job taking care of himself and you kids. I trust him."

For some reason her mother's answer made her so sad. Maybe she was naive, maybe she had a childish concept of marriage, but she had always thought her parents were best friends. Was that her fault for making assumptions or theirs for creating the illusion?

"Why do you ask, Madoka? Did something happen with your dad?"

"No…I was just worried about him, I guess. I'm not home much anymore. He's only got Tatsuya, who reads all day and doesn't talk much. I thought he might be lonely."

Junko hummed. "You're very considerate. That's one of your strengths. But it's your dad's job to worry about you, not the other way around. Don't worry about us, Madoka. Just focus on yourself, and let us take care of the rest."

It was a loving answer, but also a very distant one. As Madoka watched her mother's back she realized how far away it seemed. Even if she reached out it felt like she wouldn't be able to grab hold of the fabric of her jacket.

"How about you? How's work? Are there any problems?"

Junko laughed. "Work is fine, Madoka. The engagement I'm on is wrapping up soon. You don't have to worry about your mother. She's invincible."

Madoka caught up with Junko and they left the riverbank hand in hand. No matter what, Junko would always be her mother. Maybe it was okay to only see that part of her. Who cared about the rest of it? It had nothing to do with her.

When they drove home Madoka rolled down the car window and leaned her head against the door frame, closing her eyes to the cool night air. Junko stroked Madoka's hand as she drove, her touch comforting in the way only a mother's could be.

But she couldn't fall asleep. When they arrived home Madoka was still wide awake.

* * *

Homura's confrontation with Arata left a bad taste in her mouth. She was in a foul mood for the rest of that week. It must have shown in her writing, because Toby told her to redo everything she sent him in that period.

She also became a very frequent patron of the coffee shop near her apartment. Typically she worked at her desk, but Asami's letter was in there and she didn't want to be near it, so much as she couldn't bring herself to get rid of it.

After several days had passed she remembered Madoka's phone call, and felt a stab of guilt for not getting back to her yet. But she reminded herself that it was for the best. She ought to start building some distance now.

Nevertheless, she sent the girl a text saying she was relatively free for the coming week. Homura couldn't give a good reason for it even if she tried.

Later that night, she got a call from Madoka.

_"Hey. I've missed you,"_ she said. "_I guess I got used to seeing you almost every day! How have you been?"_

"Same as always," Homura said. She was in the kitchen making herself a sandwich, the phone itself sandwiched between her cheek and shoulder. "Reading, writing, brooding."

Madoka laughed. _"The three ingredients that make Homura!"_

Homura smiled. "I'd like to imagine I'm more complex than that."

_"Well we can throw in insomnia, stubbornness, a hatred for vegetables-"_

"I do not 'hate' vegetables," Homura objected.

_"You always make a face when there's pickles in your burger!"_

"I'm just not used to eating them because they're expensive. I'm not picky at all."

_"Uh huh. I guess I know what your Christmas present will be."_

"What, a vegetable garden?"

_"Maybe. If it isn't expensive."_

"Good luck fitting that in this apartment."

_"My dad says all a plant needs to grow is time and love. Like people!"_

Homura sighed. "That explains why I'm so short, I guess."

"_Aw, don't be like that. I'll give you all the love you need."_

"I don't know if that's cute or creepy."

_"So cold! You'd make a terrible girlfriend."_

"Why do you think I'm single, Madoka?"

_"Because you refuse to get a haircut?"_

"Okay, Madoka."

Somehow their conversations just kept going and Homura didn't notice the passage of time. They called like this often, sometimes bickering, other times sharing silence. It almost bothered her how natural it felt. She rarely thought about what to say to Madoka, but she never had to either.

Homura finished making her ham and cheese sandwich (conspicuously devoid of vegetables) and retreated back to her room. She passed Kyouko in the hall, who gave her a weird look before slipping into the bathroom.

_"I actually wanted to ask you a favor," _Madoka said suddenly. _"Are you free this weekend?"_

"I can be. Do you have something planned?"

Madoka sighed. _"Not me, my roommate. She wants me to meet her girlfriend, the one I told you about. In fact she's been bugging me about it for weeks and I've been avoiding it, but I can't really get out of this one."_

"Why not just get it over with?"

_"I think she wants all three of us to be friends. And I'm sort of…not really ready for that."_

Homura recalled Madoka's outburst by the lake. "So you want me there to run interference."

_"Just so I don't have to third-wheel them the entire time," _Madoka said. _"And if I have to meet her girlfriend, she should meet you too, I think."_

"I wasn't aware that I was your girlfriend."

Homura could feel Madoka's flush through the phone. _"That's not what I meant! I just mean I consider you a really close friend, so it's a fair trade! Anyways, I'll text you the details later. Goodnight!"_

Madoka hung up with a loud huff. Homura set her phone on the desk and caught her reflection in the mirror. A big stupid smile was plastered across her big dumb face. As soon as she noticed this she forced herself to stop.

As promised, Homura received details the very next day. They would be going to the arcade that weekend. Not really her thing, but she supposed she would put up with it for Madoka's sake.

She hoped Madoka's roommate and this infamous girlfriend weren't too insufferable.

* * *

"You are insufferable," Homura sighed.

"What?" Kyouko exclaimed, baffled.

That morning Homura had woken up to take a shower, only to find that it was occupied. After impatiently waiting for Kyouko to finish she hopped in and got ready to head to the arcade.

Kyouko left the apartment at the same time as her, saying something about a date. At first they seemed to be heading in the same direction, which Homura quickly amended by crossing the street. On the train she thought she caught a glimpse of a familiar red head, bobbing in and out of view.

"Sorry, it just slipped out," Homura said blandly. "Small world, isn't it?"

"Umm…" Madoka grasped the end of Homura's sleeve. "Do you two know each other?"

Homura sighed, waving her hand between them. "Kyouko, meet Madoka. My friend. And Madoka, meet Kyouko…my roommate."

Madoka's mouth gaped. "No way! What a coincidence!"

"I'll say!" Exclaimed the girl standing beside Kyouko, crossing both arms over her chest. "You mean I've been dating your roommate and you've been hanging out with mine this entire time?"

Homura eyed Miki Sayaka and immediately had a feeling she wasn't going to like her. "As Madoka said, it is indeed quite a coincidence."

"Hmm." Sayaka seemed less than pleased. "Well now that we're all here, let's head inside, shall we?"

She turned and entered the arcade, pulling Kyouko along with her. Homura hung back as Madoka fell into step beside her.

"Sayaka seems less than happy about all this," Homura noted.

Madoka smiled weakly. "I haven't exactly mentioned you to her yet, so I guess she feels…out of the loop?"

"I suppose that can be irritating."

Madoka humphed. "Well, now she knows how it feels."

Homura chuckled. "Spite doesn't suit you."

"What's up with you and Kyouko, then?"

Homura eyed her roommate's back. "We just don't see eye to eye. Roommates and nothing more."

"And they were _roommates!"_ Madoka said dramatically.

Homura laughed. "Stop."

The arcade had a small restaurant that served fast food, which they visited first because Kyouko claimed to be starving (Homura doubted this, as starvation was a relative term and Kyouko was _always_ 'starving'). They slid into a four person booth, Homura and Madoka on one side and Sayaka and Kyouko on the other.

It was…awkward, to say the least. Homura already knew Kyouko, and Sayaka seemed less than interested in getting to know her. They ended up just listening as Madoka tried desperately to have a conversation with Kyouko.

The rest of the afternoon continued in this fashion. Homura didn't know if it was due to the weirdness of her and Kyouko already knowing each other or Madoka's unwillingness to even be here. They eventually left the restaurant to play the actual arcade games, but Sayaka stuck with Kyouko and Madoka did not seem inclined to object.

While Kyouko was busy impressing Sayaka at the skee-ball machine, Madoka tugged on Homura's sleeve and pulled them away into the crowd. Homura let Madoka guide her as they drew further from Sayaka and Kyouko.

"Won't they be upset if we just leave?" Homura voiced, though she didn't really mind.

"They're having fun on their own," Madoka shrugged. "We should have some fun ourselves."

They climbed into a cramped photo booth in the far corner of the arcade, pulling the curtain in for privacy. It was one of those ancient things with silly filters and effects, plus the option to print out your photos if you were willing to pay up.

"My mom and I got kicked out of a store last week for making faces in the mirror," Madoka laughed. She punched some buttons on the screen. "Come on, let's do this! I haven't done one of these since middle school."

As Madoka hugged her and posed for the photo, Homura thought about how she never would have known what being inside a stuffy photo booth at a run down arcade on a Saturday afternoon felt like if not for this girl. Madoka was a door to things she could never experience alone.

She liked Madoka. She missed Madoka when she wasn't around. Maybe it was okay to take advantage of the girl's kindness for a little longer. Maybe she didn't have to hate Madoka for that very kindness. Maybe she didn't have to hate herself either.

These were all lies and she knew it. But Homura squashed the guilt in her chest and squeezed Madoka back, sending a small blush across the girl's cheeks. One day this too would end.

Thus began a fateful summer.

* * *

A/N This chapter sure took a long time to get out. I was busy with finals for a couple weeks, and then I sloughed through some awful writer's block. I legitimately think I wrote, deleted, and rewrote like 3 chapters worth of words before finally settling on this version of events. I decided to cut loose a bit in certain parts and throw in some silly conversation threads here and there, which I think are reminiscent of older stories I wrote when I was younger. I think I managed to pack a lot into this chapter without making it too long, to make up for the delay.

Also, for those wondering about the ultimate length of this story, I believe it will be around twenty chapters long.

Thanks for reading!

-Banshee


	10. Touch

Chapter Ten - Touch

Homura's first year of university ended as discreetly as it began. She often found herself somewhat obsessed with the passage of time; certain milestones made this difficult to avoid. Yet she resisted phasing into bouts of self reflection or nostalgia. It was hard to explain, but she felt it was for the same reason she was a Murakami contrarian.

She didn't have any particular plans for that summer. One of her economics professors offered her a paid research position that she accepted; the money was nice, and it looked good on a resume. Most of the work was from home though, so she had little reason to leave the apartment once classes ended.

Summer in the city felt different than in the small middle of nowhere town where she grew up. Back then she would often fall into a deep sense of isolation through June and July. Afternoons spent hiding in the endless fields of grass on the way home from school, nights spent in the old traditional home of her childhood.

Distracted by thoughts of the past, Homura sat at her desk to do some writing. She had the window propped open by her elbow. Her eyes traced the black wires between the telephone poles on her street. They criss-crossed the sky like a massive fishnet marking the borders of her world.

Toby was expecting an update from her later that week. Homura stared at the screen of her computer but could not bring herself to begin. It felt like she was staring at the end of her story through a pane of bulletproof glass. The odd strangling feeling in her chest was invisible, but impenetrable.

Suddenly she felt sick, and had to close out of her word processor.

After breathing deeply for a few minutes, she drafted an email to Toby saying she needed more time.

* * *

Homura could count the number of times she had touched her mother and father on one hand.

Middle school graduation. One of the other parents, whose daughter was also the type to stick her nose in someone else's business, offered to take a family photo for them. Homura, her mother, and her father stood awkwardly by the gate of the school she had attended for three years.

The nosy parent laughed and urged them to hold each other. Homura's father did not move an inch, but she felt a soft rustle against the back of her uniform, as her mother's bony hand came to rest on her shoulder. It was a startling realization to her at the time, that her mother was made of flesh and blood just as she was.

The photo came out as awkward as it felt. Three sorry looking figures standing beneath the shade of a cherry tree. Her father, in the boxy suit he had worn for what felt like a hundred years, his face stone cold and unreadable. Her mother, thinner than a reed and so silent she was not unlike a ghost, yet impenetrable in her own way.

And between them Homura, her hair even longer and more unkempt than in college. Looking back she was glad she was holding her diploma in her hands for the photo. Back then she never knew what to do with her hands. She still didn't.

She didn't know where that photo was anymore. From what she remembered it might have been the only photo of all three of them to ever exist. It was strange; she had only seen it once, yet it was burned permanently into her memory.

Physical intimacy remained a grand mystery as she grew older. Perhaps due to her lack of experience, she didn't know _how_ to touch people; didn't know the proper way to express herself without words. Goodbye hugs at graduation were always a great ordeal for her. Not that she got many to begin with.

She always thought this was why she became obsessed with reading at a young age. It was a way to simulate the sensations of life she ought to have had by then. Homura was never much interested in fantasy or science fiction, even at a young age. Because of this she didn't fit in even amongst the bookworms. She spent her days reading dramas, mysteries, and romances. What she lacked in experience, she tried to make up for in study.

Her high school was a thirty minute bike ride away from home. On snowy days she would take the bus, though she avoided it because it was always packed with people.

One morning she found herself crushed against an older girl who might have been a third year at her school; she had long chestnut brown hair and nicely manicured nails. Homura felt herself getting lightheaded as the girl's body pressed against hers. She could feel the soft curve of the girl's flank, a soft tickle of hair against her ear. She smelled nice, like a field of dandelions at dawn, and Homura found herself trying to breathe deeper.

When she got off the bus her heart was beating faster than she wanted to admit.

From that day on she developed a mild obsession with her upperclassman with the chestnut brown hair. Occasionally they would pass each other in the hall at school, and though Homura never knew her name she was always acutely aware of the girl's presence, the memory of pressing up against her warm body.

One sunny afternoon she spotted the track team holding their daily practice through the window of her classroom. The her upperclassman was there, sweat pouring down her brow as she sprinted down the length of the track. As she watched Homura felt a tight throbbing in her chest she hadn't known before.

For all the things she didn't understand about her parents, there was even more she didn't understand about herself.

* * *

One foggy morning, Homura woke up at the crack of dawn and went for a run. She wasn't really a runner, hated exercise really, but she didn't know how else to wear down the dark cloud plaguing her thoughts. All night she had tossed and turned, weighed down by something she refused to acknowledge.

Madoka was coming over later that evening. Kyouko was going over to Sayaka's place for movie night, and Madoka didn't want to be around. She then hit upon the idea of having their own movie night at Homura's.

_"I've never been to your place. It'll be fun!" _Madoka said over the phone.

After her run Homura took a long shower and did her best to tidy up her room. She didn't think she was a slob, but she also wasn't the type to make her bed (she was going to sleep it in again later anyway, what was the point?). No one typically came in here except her. Maybe there was a smell she wasn't aware of? On the way home she bought a plug-in air freshener and shoved it into her wall outlet. Soft lavender, a purple-pink color.

Her laptop stared judgmentally at her as she cleaned up. It had been more than a week since she last wrote a single word. She was aware that she was falling behind. The thought yawned before her like a giant chasm. Yet she could not bring herself to cross the void.

She had experienced writer's block before. This was different. It was deeper. Writer's block was painful because one wants to write but can't; now the very act of writing brought her pain.

Toby was getting impatient. He had sent her emails throughout the week, some encouraging, others stern. She knew her editor was in a difficult position. She knew she was causing trouble for him. She couldn't avoid responding to him for much longer.

Madoka arrived at the apartment at five o'clock sharp. Homura's pulse leapt when her buzzer made a noise. The floor had been swept; even the shoes were neatly lined up against the wall. She buzzed Madoka in and took a seat on the couch, not knowing what else to do with herself. Cleaning the whole apartment seemed disingenuous somehow, like she was trying to hide something.

A knock came from the door, and Homura admitted Madoka into the apartment. The girl stepped inside and kicked off her shoes, then caught herself and lined them up neatly next to the others.

"Wow, your place is so clean! Not what I expected," she laughed.

Homura rolled her eyes. "Did you think I lived in a pigsty?"

"No, but I don't take you for a clean freak either. You're like…organized chaos."

"That's an oxymoron."

"A true one," Madoka smiled, tapping Homura's chin with her finger.

They made popcorn and retreated into Homura's room. Madoka fell onto the bed face first, the bedspring creaking gently beneath her weight.

She inhaled. "It smells like you."

"I'd hope so. It would be odd if it didn't."

Madoka grinned, grabbing the blanket and spinning around until she was wrapped up in a cocoon. Her eyes scanned the worn pile of books stacked next to the bed, the rickety desk and the assortment of clothes visible through a small opening in the closet. "I really like your room, Homura."

"Why? It's cramped, and old."

"I know. But it's just so _you._"

A vein in Homura's neck twitched, and she looked away. Her laptop was stuffed inside her book bag, which had in turn been thrown deep inside her closet. Asami's letter was similarly shoved as far back into her desk drawer as it could go.

Finally she forced a smile and threw one of her pillows at Madoka. "So you think I'm cramped and old?"

Her friend grinned. "In a good way."

They turned off the lights and put on the movie, using a laptop Madoka had brought. The film was a Hong Kong product called _In the Mood For Love._ It was apparently rather famous, though Homura was no expert.

Homura sat up against her headboard with the laptop balanced on her lap. Madoka threw the covers over both of them and laid her head on Homura's chest, her hand resting on her stomach. It rose and fell in tandem with her breathing. Homura was acutely aware of her heart throbbing in her chest throughout the duration of the film.

The movie followed a man and woman who lived with their respective spouses. The two couples were neighbors in the same apartment building, and over time the man and woman became suspicious that their respective spouses were seeing each other. It was a compelling, if not somber tale.

The man and woman hinted at entering into an affair of their own several times, but in the end it seemed they never really did anything. It was an open ended conclusion that tore at her soul. As the credits rolled, she wasn't quite sure if she had enjoyed the movie.

Homura closed the laptop and set it aside. Madoka tugged Homura down onto her back and laid her head on the girl's chest, sharing a wordless darkness between them.

"What do you want do now?" Madoka asked, her hand gently stroking Homura's collarbone.

Homura didn't know what to say. Her heart hammered insistently against her ribcage. She wondered if Madoka could hear it, and if she could what she would think.

"We can do whatever you want."

They shared no further words. A few minutes later Madoka closed her eyes and fell asleep on top of her. Homura gingerly wrapped an arm around the girl's body and tried to calm her wild pulse, and some time later she too managed to fall asleep.

They slept for an hour or two; it was difficult to tell in the darkness. She wasn't sure who woke first. One of them shifted slightly and roused the other. Madoka propped herself on her elbows and hovered over Homura, the ends of her hair tickling Homura's cheeks and chin.

The soft scent of sleep and intimacy clung to their skin. Homura could feel all of Madoka, her touch, her breathing, the softness of the girl's legs against hers beneath the covers. She felt her pulse reignite as Madoka lowered her head, running her nose along Homura's exposed neck.

"Madoka?" She breathed, softly clenching her fists. The girl's hand reached up to grab Homura's wrist, thumb caressing the delicate tendon that lay beneath the skin.

Madoka bit her lip. Even in the darkness, Homura could see that she was blushing crimson. "Homura, do you…do you dislike this?"

Her other hand came up to caress Homura's face. The girl's touch sent a shiver down her spine, and suddenly memories from the past were dredged up, raw and powerful. Madoka's warmth, her weight; it roared Homura back to a different time, when she was younger and more vulnerable, naive and stupid beyond belief.

Madoka brought her face closer to Homura's, but paused when she saw tears clinging to the girl's eyes. She drew back in shock, her hand leaving Homura's face.

"Homura? What's wrong?"

A strangled noise leaked from her throat. Pulling her arm free, Homura slowly pushed Madoka away and slipped out of the bed. She stood and took a deep shuddering breath, glad for the presence of darkness to hide her face.

"I-I'm sorry. You didn't do anything wrong. I just…need a moment."

She slipped out of the room and shut the door behind her. Madoka was left sitting alone on the bed, shrouded in darkness.

* * *

As soon as she left the room Homura went into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. She ran cold water in the sink and dunked her face under the stream, trying to calm the firestorm raging in her head.

Afterwards she stared at herself in the mirror, breathing slowly through her nose. An eerie visage of her own face stared back, dripping with water. Suddenly she was back on that bus in high school, too afraid even to breathe.

After a few minutes she felt a little better. She left the bathroom and went into the kitchen to prepare some drinks; it felt strange to return with nothing.

As she grabbed two cups from the cupboard and poured out some fruit juice. The raw feeling in her chest simmered quietly. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, but it would not subside, like a sickness she could not quite shake.

* * *

After Homura left, Madoka sat on the edge of the bed and stared sightlessly out the window.

_What is wrong with me?_

She didn't know what had come over her. Maybe it was the mood created by the movie? A film about love…maybe it was connected to Sayaka somehow? Her mother? She didn't know. Maybe it was all of those things. She couldn't piece it together. She sat hunched on the edge of the bed, holding her face in the hands, swamped by a mix of shame and regret.

But she was sure of one thing: in that moment she had wanted nothing more than to be closer to Homura. She wanted to hold her, caress her, to an extent that suggested possession. A raw emotion stronger than anything she had ever known, it pulsed in her veins even now.

_I don't get it. I don't do things like this. It's not me. Why did I do that? She must hate me now. I have to apologize. I don't want to lose her. Not Homura._

She was startled from her thoughts when a piercing noise cut through the darkness. Homura's phone was ringing where it had been left on the bedside table. Flinching badly, Madoka stared at it for a moment before letting it ring. Eventually it stopped, and she returned to her tumultuous thoughts.

A moment later the phone rang again. She let it ring a second time, though she checked the caller ID. Someone named Toby. A friend from school perhaps? Family?

It occurred to her suddenly that she knew next to nothing about Homura. She didn't think the girl had many other friends at school, but she could be wrong. And family, Homura never mentioned. But everyone had a family at some point, whether they liked it or not.

_I don't know the first thing about her, do I?_

The phone ceased its ringing, but it quickly started a third time, vibrating so hard it was slowly rumbling towards the edge of the table.

She glanced at the door. This Toby person was obviously calling about something important to be this insistent. But she wasn't about to take the phone to Homura. Not now. She ought to just leave it be.

Even as she thought this, her hand reached out and picked up the phone. It was cold in her fingers as she answered it.

"Hello?"

_"Sunako? It's about time! I've been trying to get a hold of you all week. What's going on with you? Are you sick again?"_

"Huh?" Madoka furrowed her brow. "Who's Sunako?"

The voice on the other end paused. _"Who is this?"_

"This is Homura's phone. Do you have the wrong number by chance?"

The man made a knowing noise. "_Oh. A pen name, huh? She's always had a dramatic flair…listen, is Homura a young lady in college? Long dark hair, acid tongue?"_

"…Yes?"

"_Okay, just making sure. Can you pass the phone to her, please?"_

"Um…" Madoka glanced at the door a second time. "She's out at the moment. Can I pass a message along?"

_"Sure. Tell, uh, 'Homura' that her editor called. Her manuscript still needs a lot of work and we have deadlines to meet. I understand one's muse does not always cooperate, but that's part of being a professional. I need an update by this weekend, no matter what."_

"I'm sorry, what?" Madoka said. "What manuscript? What are you talking about?"

_"She hasn't told you? Your friend's going to be a published author, young lady. A mighty difficult one to work with, mind you, but she's got talent. I'll give her that. Why don't you ask her for a signed copy? If she makes it big, it'll be a collector's item. Just kidding. Unless…"_

"I see," Madoka said. Her head was spinning. "You said your name was Toby?"

_"Is that what she has me saved under? For crying out loud…tell her Nakagawa Tobio from Toshoukan Publishing wants an update by Saturday, or so help me. Pretty please."_

"Um, sure. I'll do that."

_"Thank you."_

Nakagawa Tobio ended the call. Madoka put the phone back on the bedside table. She sat in silence until Homura knocked on the door to her own room before entering, carrying two glasses of fruit juice.

"I thought you might be thirsty," she said softly, placing the drinks on her desk.

Madoka chewed the inside of her cheek. They remained at opposite ends of the room, separated by the city lights trickling through the window. Her heart thudded in her chest, choked by the pervasive darkness.

"So, um…" Homura scratched her nails against the desk. She never knew what to do with her hands. "What should we do now?"

Madoka gazed at the two lonely glasses of juice on the desk. She had hoped to stay the night, but to attempt that now would be folly.

"It's getting late. I should…I should head back."

Homura nodded. It hurt Madoka that the girl seemed relieved. "I'll walk you home."

* * *

They stood on opposite sides of the elevator down. Madoka kept her eyes trained on the little blinking light that said which floor they were on, if only to avoid looking at Homura.

As they sank to the lobby level, Madoka switched her gaze to her shoes, clutching her bag in her hands. "Homura…I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. It was wrong of me."

Homura shook her head, but their eyes did not meet. "It's fine. You're fine. It's not you. I just…have some things I haven't worked out yet."

_What things? What happened? What is it that's really bothering you? _Such questions lingered and ultimately died on the tip of Madoka's tongue. She could not bring herself to pry, not after what she had just done. As the two of them left the building and entered the warm summer night, she felt further from Homura than ever.

Homura walked ahead, staying a few paces in front of Madoka. She wasn't used to watching her friend from behind.

As they walked in silence, Madoka suddenly became very afraid that she had pushed Homura away forever. She thought about her apartment with a roommate she didn't want to see, her home with a mother who wasn't what she seemed, and suddenly felt extremely alone. For the last few months it felt like everyone was drifting further away. In desperation she had clung to Homura, but in a single foolish moment she might have ruined everything.

_Please, don't leave me. I need you._

"Your editor called," she said, breaking the silence.

Homura froze in place. "What?"

"Your editor. Someone named Nakagawa Tobio?" Madoka continued, continuing her pace. "He called while you were out. I picked up because he wouldn't stop calling…I normally wouldn't have, but it seemed important."

Homura turned and watched as Madoka approached her. "I see. What did he have to say?"

"That he needs an update by this Saturday. I guess you've been avoiding his calls? He seemed a little upset."

Homura averted her gaze. "Toby's always upset about something."

They were standing by a small stream that ran alongside the road. There were no streetlights here, and so the soft gurgling of water was the only proof that the stream lay nearby.

"He said you're going to be an author. That you're working on a manuscript," Madoka said. "Is it true, Homura? Are you really going to be published?"

Homura did not respond immediately. In the darkness her expression was inscrutable.

"Yes. It's true," she said finally.

She turned and started walking again. Madoka trotted to keep up with her.

"That's amazing, Homura! It's your dream to be published, isn't it? I'm really happy for you!"

Homura gave her a wan smile. "Thank you."

"But I had no idea. I guess there's restrictions on that sort of thing? Like you're supposed to keep it secret till it's done?"

"No, not particularly…there's no rule like that."

"Oh. Did you tell anyone else about your manuscript?"

"No. I don't have anyone to tell, to begin with."

"…What about me?"

Another long pause.

"I just didn't want to tell anyone."

"…Oh."

They turned onto a main road. Here the lights were brighter; their surroundings were awash in whites, reds and greens. Like a small piece of Christmas at a glance.

They waited at a crosswalk for the light to change, their hair waving back and forth whenever a car swept by. Homura looked like her gaze was fixed across the street, but in reality she was looking somewhere very far away.

"So, what is the story about?" Madoka asked. "You don't seem like the type to write fantasy or adventure…I bet it's a mystery! A crime thriller maybe? You're smart, I bet you could write a good one."

Homura smiled tightly. "No, it's not quite like that."

"A political drama then? Oh, or a romance! I'd like to read your take on love. Now that I think about it, I've never read your writing, have I? You should send me something you're proud of! I might not be smart enough to appreciate it though…or how about what you're writing now? If you want I could-"

"Sorry," Homura interrupted. "But I'd rather not talk about it. Okay?"

Madoka blinked. "Oh…okay."

The lights blinked and changed. Homura shoved her hands in her pockets and started walking.

"Come on. Let's go."

Madoka did not know quite how to feel as she followed Homura back to her apartment. She had discovered something new she hadn't known before, but it raised more questions than answers. And the truth was she had not even the slightest idea how to answer those questions. That was what scared her; the realization that she might not really understand Homura at all, that they weren't as close as she had thought. It was a heartbreaking revelation, embarrassing, exposing her for everything she wasn't.

She didn't know what to do. Panic consumed her with no apparent solution. She found herself on the verge of tears the whole way back, though she hid it to avoid causing Homura any more trouble.

They reached her apartment and stood awkwardly by the lobby entrance. She wanted to hug Homura goodbye like usual, but she couldn't bring herself to do it, and Homura wasn't going to initiate. Maybe that was the truth. Maybe if she didn't chase, there was nothing between them.

In the end Homura just waved goodbye and disappeared around the corner.

* * *

Madoka made her way up to her apartment mostly on autopilot. When she tried shoving her key in the lock it wouldn't fit, and she looked up to find she was standing in front of the wrong door.

Wobbling about, she made her way to the correct one. As she approached, she heard muffled laughs and gasps from the other side. She paused with her hand on the knob, suddenly filled with dread. She had forgotten about Sayaka and Kyouko. Yet another reason she had wanted to spend the night with Homura.

Biting her lip, she considered knocking but caught herself. Why should she have to knock before entering her own apartment? There was no need for her to be so considerate. An obstinate anger rose within her. Sayaka was the inconsiderate one, not her.

She shoved the key in the lock and abruptly pushed the door aside.

Sayaka and Kyouko were laying on the couch, wrestling and playing with each other. The lights were off and the television was on, playing some movie neither of them were paying attention to.

They both started and looked up at the noise, locking eyes with Madoka. She was glad to find she hadn't walked in on anything inappropriate, but then again if she caught Sayaka doing that in the living room she would have been beyond livid.

"Madoka! You're back? How late is it?" Sayaka said, shoving Kyouko off her. The redhead flew off the couch with a painful _oof._ "Weren't you at Homura's place?"

Madoka stared at her roommate. Kyouko sat up straight, eyes darting between the two of them.

"I was," Madoka said finally. "I'm back now."

"Oh." Sayaka grabbed the strap of her tank top and pulled it back over her shoulder, covering herself a bit more modestly. Madoka averted her gaze. "Well, did you have a good time?"

"It was fine." Madoka brushed past the couch, nodding briefly at Kyouko before disappearing inside her room.

She could hear the two girls whispering nervously to each other through the door, but she didn't care. She fell face first into her bed, body going limp, and inhaled. It didn't smell like anything in particular.

After a moment she got up to change into her pajamas. Halfway through shrugging an oversized shirt over her head, she lapsed into staring sightlessly at the wall. Her mind replayed her conversation with Homura over and over, and the phone call before that…

It was an eerily familiar sensation that accompanied her as she sat down at her desk and opened her laptop. It was the same feeling she had when she stole her mother's work schedule, all those months ago. The insatiable curiosity that drove her to do things she shouldn't.

Her fingers moved deftly through the search engine.

_Nakagawa Tobio._

Sparse results. Nothing that seemed relevant. Clicking back, she added more terms to her search.

_Nakagawa Tobio Toshoukan Publishing._

There. A work profile from a company website. He was indeed a lead editor at a publishing company based in the city. Madoka spent the next few minutes clicking around their website, scrolling through their catalogue of works to get an idea of what they liked to put out. In the end though it told her nothing about Homura's story.

She devolved into clicking on random links, jumping around the site in search of a clue, anything, to key her in. It was desperate and she felt sick for it, but she didn't know what else to do. She could not bear the reality where her best friend was a stranger.

A contact page. Investor reports. Finally, Madoka clicked on the last link she had yet to visit. A list detailing the company's executive leadership. Scrolling down, her tired eyes scanned the doctored portraits on display.

Her gaze came to rest on one picture in particular.

She had only seen his face once, but once was enough. It was seared into her memory, deep and vivid like blood pouring from a wound. Before it had been just a face, without name or identity.

That all changed in one single moment. The room spun in circles as she grappled with the revelation, tried and failed to deny it. But now there was a name to the face.

_Sasaki Arata._

Looking back, that was the beginning of the end.

* * *

A/N

Well, this chapter was certainly a long time coming (then again, I think I say that every time I update). Without getting into specifics, I am perhaps the most busy I have ever been in my entire life at the moment, and the current situation is likely to persist for some time. Regardless, I will do my best to keep writing and update when I can.

The plot continues to thicken! Any thoughts or feedback are greatly appreciated.

Thanks for reading!

-Banshee


	11. Regret

Chapter Eleven - Regret

As soon as Homura was across the street she reached into her pocket and dialed Toby's number, pressing the phone against her ear so hard it made the skin go numb. Her legs worked on autopilot, though she had no idea if she was heading in the right direction or not.

It was the middle of the night. He might not pick up. But Homura didn't care. A seething mass of shock, pain and anger roiled in her chest. Her heart raced in flight from an all too familiar feeling: fear.

The phone rang three times. Four. Five. Just as Homura was about to give up, someone picked up.

_"Hello?" _Came a tired sounding voice.

"Toby," Homura said immediately, "Did you call my phone earlier?"

_"Well yes, as a matter of fact I did. Trying to get a hold of you this week has been a nightmare-"_

"What did you say to her?" Homura demanded, cutting him off.

_"Your friend? She said you were out so I told her I need an update by this weekend. She also mentioned your real name, which I apologize for if you were trying to keep that private. But you have my word that I won't tell anyone."_

The world spun slowly around her as she crossed the main street from earlier. She came to a stop on the sidewalk, putting a hand against the stoplight to steady herself.

"What else did you tell her? Did you reveal any information about the manuscript? Anything at all?"

_"Other than that it exists, no. But I did tell her my full name and what company I work for."_

Her stomach clenched; she thought she might be sick. It was enough. The smallest, seemingly insignificant scrap of information, but it was enough to bring everything crashing down.

The world began to recede from her senses. The roar of the cars passing her by faded into nothing. She felt suddenly like she was staring at herself from within, detached from anything occurring on the outside.

_"Su…Homura? What's wrong? Did I say something I shouldn't have?"_

Homura took a deep shuddering breath and leaned her back against the stoplight. She closed her eyes and began to speak, her words rushed and garbled.

"Toby, you…can't. Don't just start saying things to people you don't know. What if she was a stranger? What if I didn't actually know her? You don't know what I have going on in my life. Why, Toby? Why did you have to tell her? If only you hadn't…if you hadn't said anything, it would have been _fine._ I don't want you to speak to anyone except me about this from now on. I don't want people to know. Personal reasons. Do you understand? No one can know. I have no choice, so you have to understand that I-"

Her senses abruptly returned to her all at once, and she realized she was practically shouting into the phone. Several passerby were giving her odd looks. The people sitting in their cars at a red light stared at her, their eyes numerous and all seeing.

She cut herself off. Her forehead was drenched in sweat. Toby said nothing for several seconds. When he did speak it was in a calm tone.

_"I don't pretend to know your personal situation. But it seems I may have overstepped my bounds. For that I apologize, Ho…Sunako. It won't happen again, I promise."_

Homura shook her head, putting a hand against her forehead. "No. No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted. I'm sorry."

_"That's fine. Listen, if you need more time, we can find a way to make it work. It won't be easy, but it's better than stressing yourself out. Take care of yourself; you're still very young, unlike me."_

"No…I'll have an update ready. I promise."

_"If you can. But don't fret about it too much."_

"Goodnight, Toby."

_"Goodnight, Sunako."_

* * *

Madoka did not get any sleep that night.

She spent the next several hours scouring the Internet for any trace of information on Sasaki Arata. It was well past midnight when she began her search, and as the number of tabs in her browser increased dawn grew ever closer.

But in the end there wasn't much. The sparse bio attached to his company profile seemed to be the only public information available.

_It's him. There's no doubt. But what's his connection to Homura? Do they even know each other?_

It was nearly four in the morning when she was about to give up and close all her tabs. Her laptop was low on battery and on the verge of death. But just as she prepared to close her computer, a link buried deep within her search results caught her eye. It caught her attention because some of the words were familiar.

Her finger shook slightly from lack of sleep as she dragged it across the trackpad.

It was an online database of every book in the possession of the Mitakihara University Library. Seemingly unrelated, but there was a match. The library owned one book written by a certain Sasaki Arata.

Madoka's bloodshot eyes squinted at the pale glow of the screen. The kanji was the same. It was most likely him; it wasn't a common name. She caught the title of the book he had supposedly written.

_The Glass Garden._

A memory returned to her then, tiny but significant. The night she met Homura for the first time. The girl was sitting on the floor of the library with a book cradled in her hands. Through the fog of her memory she recalled the title set into the faded cover of the book.

A deep sense of fear pierced her chest. But she didn't know what to make of it.

_He and Homura are connected somehow. The book has something to do with it. What's the answer? Is Homura hiding something?_

_Has she been lying to me?_

Panic rose up and swamped her, sudden and suffocating. Something was afoot, she knew, but her ignorance was as deep as her suspicion. It was the same sick, awful feeling she got when she visited home. Her breathing became shallow; it felt like she was hyperventilating.

Shaking her head violently, she rose and went to the bathroom, where she dunked her head under a cold stream of water. After washing her face she looked at her reflection in the mirror. A gaunt expression stared back, dark bags clinging to the corners of her eyes.

_It's happening again. Everything's falling apart. Is it my fault? It's always me._

Returning to her room, she laid in her bed and tried to go to sleep. Exhaustion dragged at her bones but her anxiety, fickle and buoyant, kept her consciousness afloat. Madoka laid with her eyes fixed on the ceiling until the sun began to rise behind her curtains, and birds chirped in the street outside.

She left her bed and took a shower. Afterwards she put on some outdoor clothes and gathered her things, heading for the door.

As she slipped into her shoes she heard Sayaka stir in her room. As her roommate's door opened, a tired voice called out from the hall.

"Madoka?"

But Madoka was already gone, the door closing softly behind her.

* * *

The campus library wasn't open yet when Madoka arrived. She stopped by a small breakfast place across the street, ordering a hash brown and eggs. The waitress who brought her food complimented her outfit. Madoka did not respond. The waitress frowned and walked away.

Once she had eaten she ordered a large cup of coffee and downed it in one go. She then went to the front entrance of the library and loitered there until someone came to unlock it, an elderly woman who smiled and wished her good morning. Madoka nodded wordlessly before slipping inside.

Locating the book was rather easy. She took the elevator up to the floor where she first met Homura, following her memory to the shelf where the girl had sat curled up and alone. After scanning the volumes with a finger for a few moments she found it, a small battered thing that smelled vaguely of dust.

She checked it out and made the short walk to the lush green lawn that occupied the center of campus. Typically it was crowded with students taking lunch under the city sun, but this early in the morning it was empty. Madoka picked a wooden bench beneath the shade of a cherry tree, setting the book on her lap. It was rather thin, so light that she had to keep looking at it to make sure it was there.

A lively summer wind stirred around her shoulders, urging her forth. She opened the book and began to read.

* * *

Long ago, a girl named Calliope was the most beautiful in her small seaside town. Lush hair as dark as the sea at night fell to her waist. Her fingers were long and graceful, and her eyes betrayed an intellect that lurked beneath her kind expression. The men sang her praises when she walked down the street, and the women bickered jealously amongst themselves. All the town's residents wondered aloud who would be so blessed as to wed the beautiful Calliope.

As she grew into marriageable age, Calliope spent much of her time alone. Her father, who desired a significant dowry in exchange for his only daughter, forbade her from mingling with other women or flirting with men to preserve her purity. She spent her formative years in a beautiful garden her father built for her, surrounded on all sides by high walls that blocked the sun in the mornings and twilights.

The flowers in this garden were crafted painstakingly from glass. During the day they sparkled so brightly they were nearly blinding; at night their soft glow lulled her to sleep. These were the only flowers Calliope knew; flowers that were perfect, beautiful, and artificial.

Beyond the garden walls, suitors competed for Calliope's hand in marriage. Two men, a wealthy merchant and a renowned painter, emerged as the top contenders. Calliope's father, seeking to drive up the asking price, played both men against each other. The two suitors competed with gifts of wealth and connections, and boasted of their various accomplishments. Residents of the town formed two separate camps for each man, arguing back and forth over who was more worthy to wed Calliope.

The girl's father, in the meantime, enjoyed the great treasures hoisted upon him. Agents on both sides resorted to deception, trickery, and sabotage to gain the upper hand. It seemed the war for Calliope's heart would never cease. The rivalry between the merchant and the painter frothed and broiled to a breaking point; then in the dead of night, the painter slipped into the merchant's home and slit his throat.

Tragedy and chaos gripped the seaside town the following morning. The merchant's sister, who was the first to discover her brother's corpse, became filled with rage and sought out the murderous painter's home. Using a torch, she set alight the storage shed where he kept all of his uncompleted works. When the painter rushed inside to save his creations, she locked the door and listened as he burned to death within.

The merchant's sister then wrote a letter in ink addressed to Calliope, vilifying her for causing the death of her brother. She tied the message to a stone and hurled it over the wall of the glass garden, where it landed beside Calliope.

Young Calliope read this message, and came to learn of the catastrophic deeds wrought in pursuit of her hand. She looked up and saw the pillar of smoke rising from the direction of the painter's shed. Young Calliope, whose dream was to one day leave the garden and at last meet her husband, came to abhor her own beauty for the agony it had brought.

That night she crafted a mask to hide her own face behind for the rest of her days. She was very skilled with her hands, and the mask she created was so grotesque as to disturb the imagination. Even the mercenaries hired to stand guard at the garden entrance shuddered when they caught a glimpse of it. It was a manifestation of self loathing and disingenuity. She fixed the mask to her face and wore it through her subsequent days in the garden, never removing it.

Despite the tragedy of the merchant and the painter, new suitors continued to clamor for Calliope's hand in marriage. Her father, distraught and disturbed, ordered his daughter to remove the mask. When she refused, he struck her. But even still she refused, and he left the garden in a rage.

The guards gave her a wide berth, unnerved by their mistress's appearance. Calliope took advantage of this to slip out of the garden on the night of a new moon. Under cover of darkness she fled, disappearing into the mountains with the hideous mask still fixed to her face.

In the morning her father returned to the garden to reason with his daughter again. When he arrived he found only a sea of glass, the flowers that had been so painstakingly crafted smashed to pieces.

* * *

Madoka closed the book when the sun rose high enough to strike her eyes. She was only about a third of the way into the story, but felt no desire to read any further. Her hope had been to learn something about Homura by reading it, but in hindsight it was a fool's errand. She didn't know what she could glean from this, if at all.

Madoka set the book aside and sat still on the bench for a long time, watching the lawn slowly fill with students. She left when someone sat on the unoccupied half of the bench, her mind haunted by images of demon-like faces and hungry men.

As she walked she did searched up a route on her phone. Her eyes glanced over the results as she made a beeline for the train station. She caught one and took it uptown, her eyes staring sightlessly out the window.

She recognized the station she got off at. It was the same one she had left from with Homura, when they ran into each other at the cafe in the rain. The same homeless man was still sitting against the wall. His sunken eyes flickered in recognition when they saw Madoka, but this time she passed him by, her thin figure disappearing up the steps.

The Toshoukan Publishing building was easy to find; it loomed large against the sky. Madoka lingered in front of the entrance for several minutes, clenching and unclenching her hand around her bag. Tall men in suits gave her suspicious glances as they left the building. After nearly ten minutes she brought herself to enter, the cool air inside the lobby almost shocking against her sweaty skin.

Once inside she found her path to the elevators blocked by a set of turnstiles. When Madoka spoke to the woman behind the desk she was asked about an appointment, which she did not have. She even begged the woman to call Sasaki Arata's desk and say Junko Kaname's daughter was there to see him. The woman rolled her eyes and obliged, but in the end she was shooed away from the lobby. Apparently Mr. Sasaki had no idea who she was.

After leaving the building she took a long walk by the river. It felt like she had run out of options.

She came to a stop then, along a section of the riverbank where she could see the new boardwalk she had visited with her mother. It wasn't true. There was still one more thing she could do. But it was a terrifying thing, a solution perhaps more dangerous than ignorance. She didn't know if she could do it.

_But you always do this, don't you? Run away. You couldn't confront Mama, or Sayaka. Now Homura's next. And then there will be nobody._

From the very beginning Madoka had harbored a fear of the truth. But she came to realize, along that quiet riverbank of memories, that she was tired of feeling regret.

* * *

Homura came home past midnight and slept fitfully. She had a nightmare of being chased by something. When she awoke it was only five in the morning, but she could not fall back asleep.

_There's no guarantee that Madoka will find out. But there's no guarantee that she won't._

She washed her face in the sink. When she looked at her reflection in the mirror she was shocked by how haggard she looked. She splashed more water against her face, rubbing her eyes until they were red.

Afterwards she forced a small breakfast down her throat and collapsed onto the couch. A sinister cloud of thoughts bogged down upon her. A striking sense of fear gripped her, so deep as to be undeniable.

_I don't want to lose her._

The memory of Madoka's touch returned to her. Homura shuddered as she recalled the sensation of the girl's skin.

_But I deserve to._

Her thoughts were interrupted when Kyouko's bedroom door creaked open. The redhead emerged quietly from within, more quietly than Homura had ever seen.

"You're up early," she said.

Homura turned her face away, hiding it in the swaths of dawn shadow. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. "I thought you were with Sayaka."

"I was. But things got a little awkward."

Homura said nothing. Kyouko went into the kitchen and had a glass of water before turning to face her roommate.

"Madoka seemed kind of upset last night." Kyouko eyed Homura. "Did something happen between you guys?"

Homura felt her stomach turn over at the girl's words. A dull roaring rose up in her ears, nearly drowning out the sound of her own voice.

"Nothing you should concern yourself about."

Kyouko raised an eyebrow. "You sure? She seemed pretty messed up. And Sayaka's been saying she's been acting weird lately. Normally I wouldn't care, but it's affecting Sayaka."

Homura gritted her teeth and looked away. "I said nothing happened."

Her heart was hammered insistently in her chest. She felt acutely aware of her own pulse. A cold sweat seeped through her pores and drowned her in its freezing grip. She felt suddenly short of breath and her vision, usually so sharp, swam in and out of focus.

"Maybe you did something to hurt her."

The words stabbed her in the gut, painful and searing hot. The couch scraped loudly against the floor as she rose. "I would _never_-"

Abruptly the world spun around her, and she sagged down to her knees. Kyouko's stern expression grew concerned as Homura collapsed, clutching her chest and gasping for breath.

"Hey, what's wrong? Are you okay? Hey!"

Kyouko knelt down to help her, but Homura waved wildly with one hand. She dragged herself up and staggered to the bathroom, her soft groans echoing off the walls. Kyouko followed, flicking on the bathroom light for her.

It felt like something evil and alive was trying to force its way out of her. Homura fell over the toilet and retched, her entire body shuddering violently. Kyouko quickly gathered the girl's hair and held it back, pinching her nose. There wasn't much to get rid of, other than the paltry breakfast Homura had forced herself to eat, but for some reason her body kept heaving for several minutes, as if possessed.

The bout left her hollow. Homura leaned against the cold bathroom wall, breathing heavily. Kyouko flushed the toilet and hoisted her roommate up, pushing her towards the sink.

"Come on. Wash your mouth out."

While Homura gargled, Kyouko left and returned with a glass of water from the kitchen.

"Drink this. It's warm."

She took the glass and downed it slowly. Hot liquid burned down her throat and settled in her stomach. Heat blossomed in her core, slowly spreading through her body.

Homura set the glass aside and gripped the sink with both hands. She was still weak on her knees. Her breathing felt shallow, her mind a maelstrom. Kyouko watched her carefully from the hallway.

"What happened?" She asked softly.

Homura shook her head. "…Nothing."

"That's bull," Kyouko snapped, grabbing the girl's shoulder. "You're a mess. If you tell me maybe I can help! What's your problem?"

"Leave me alone!" Homura snarled, shaking free. She lumbered past Kyouko and into her room, slamming the door shut.

Once inside she fell into her desk chair and opened her laptop. Sweating, weak and hungry, she attempted to write. It felt like she could pass out at any moment, but she pushed on regardless, driven by a desperation to prove something to herself.

But it was fruitless. Every word she put down, every line felt empty and soulless. Homura wrote through the morning and well into the afternoon. Her fingers typed out thousands of words in that single sitting. She did not eat, did not drink. But in the end it was useless. In the end she knew she would have to delete everything she had just written. In the end she knew she was only denying the inevitable.

Summer in the city felt different than in the small middle of nowhere town where she grew up. As the sun rose outside her bedroom became sweltering hot. The heat was relentless, and sweat dripped from Homura's arms as they finally left the keyboard and sagged lifelessly by her sides.

A cicada cried out from beyond the window. In her mind's eye Homura saw its pale and fleshy body emerging from its shell. In the pursuit of a continuation, it left its old armor behind.

There was nothing more to be done. Homura closed her laptop and buried her face in her hands.

* * *

Homura waited until Kyouko was in the bathroom before leaving the apartment. She wandered into a nearby diner and ordered a meal big enough for two. Her stomach still felt acidic, but she forced herself to eat to make up for what she had thrown up earlier.

The sun was slowly setting behind the horizon when she finished. Having regained some strength, Homura took a train downtown and entered the coffee shop by the stop she got off at. She ordered an iced latte and carried it with her to the small park by the water.

It was evening when she reached it, the constant city noise fading behind the soft wall of trees. She had not been here in a very long time. Not since just before she saw Madoka near the _Midoriiro_, on that fateful afternoon.

The park was empty. She picked her favorite bench in a little alcove off the beaten path, nearly invisible behind the trees. After she drank half her coffee she set it aside and closed her eyes.

Now that she had eaten, had caffeine and rested, Homura began to think. A dire choice lay before her. She knew that now. In order to make a decision she would not regret, she needed to be of sound mind and body.

The peaceful quiet within the park was comforting. Being with Madoka was much like being here. Silence never felt threatening with her. It felt like the girl was always trying to tell Homura, without words, that her presence alone was enough.

Her life had changed much in the past few months. Allowing someone into her life, through calculated means or otherwise, wrought far greater consequences than she had anticipated. She had thought she would be able to do what had to be done when the time came. But the deep, ravaging anxiety that had gripped her that morning and proved it was not so.

She did her best to envision, with her particularly gifted imagination, a world where her manuscript and Madoka could coexist. Yet it quickly became clear to her than one existed at the expense of the other. And the idea of having to choose, of prioritizing either her heart or her dream, tore her in two.

The memory of Madoka's touch returned to her once more. The truth was Homura wanted desperately to accept Madoka at the time. But she had to reject her because she could not bear the guilt of indulging herself. That moment, she now realized, was an admittance of wrongdoing.

There was no guarantee Madoka would ever forgive her for what she had done. Homura almost would prefer that she didn't. But she thought of a life where she completed her manuscript and shuddered. It would only be further proof for her philosophy on life. Perhaps, in a deeply selfish way, she just wanted a chance to prove herself wrong.

She could not lie to Madoka anymore. Homura knew she had always secretly looked down on the girl, for having a predetermined delusion about who Homura was. But in a way she had used Madoka too, as a way to feel the comfort of confirmation.

_When did I become this way? I don't want to lose her, even if I deserve to._

On a soft spring day now long past, the two of them met to view the cherry blossoms together. Homura remembered it well. Madoka took her hand and led them down the winding road, her bright clothes fluttering in the breeze. The image of the girl's smile amongst the flurry of pink petals had always been imprinted upon Homura's mind. She recalled thinking she wouldn't mind if that moment lasted forever.

_I want that. I want her._

But it was a vision unattainable, if she could not do what she had to do.

A small sigh escaped Homura's lips. The trees stirred gently in the wind, drawing her gaze to the evening sky.

Who would have thought that things would turn out this way? It was almost unbelievable.

But sometimes little things became big happenings.

* * *

Once Madoka had made her decision, she went back to Homura's building and rang the buzzer.

_"Hello?" _A voice she recognized as Kyouko's crackled through the intercom.

"Hi. It's…it's Madoka," she said. "Is Homura home?"

Kyouko seemed surprised by Madoka's presence. "_No, she's stepped out for a bit. Don't know where to. If you want, you can come up and wait for her."_

"…No, that's fine. I don't have much time."

"_I'll let her know you stopped by."_

"Thanks."

After that she went outside and sat down on the steps leading up to the lobby entrance. The thought of waiting in Homura's apartment beneath Kyouko's questioning gaze unnerved her.

The sun had set by now. Long shadows crept down the length of the street. As darkness fell, Madoka wondered if Homura would ever come back. Perhaps the girl was simply gone for good.

As she waited she thought several times about just getting up and going home. Fear sank its cold teeth into her body and petrified her bones. But she resisted the urge to flee. She knew if she ran away now, it would prove she had learned nothing.

Night swallowed the neighborhood. Madoka drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. As the street lights flickered on one by one, her eyes were drawn to the far end of the road.

A lone figure appeared beneath the glow of the final street light, slowly approaching.

Madoka rose as Homura reached the apartment. They observed each other in silence for a brief spell. The look in the girl's eyes was weary.

When the silence was broken, it was Madoka who spoke.

"I'm sorry to bother you so late," she said. "But I had to talk to you."

Homura said nothing. She simply nodded.

"I thought a lot about what your editor said on the phone. I looked up the company where he works. His boss is the man my mother was with that day."

She took a deep breath before continuing.

"You knew, didn't you? You knew who he was."

Homura's expression was unfathomable. She averted her gaze to the asphalt beneath her feet, her voice so soft it was nearly indiscernible.

"Yes. I knew."

Madoka shuddered. Her hand trembled by her side. "Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell me?"

Homura did not respond. Her gaze was fixed on something very far away once again, just like the previous night. Madoka walked up and grabbed her friend's hand. Homura felt the trembles shaking Madoka's body and finally looked at her, eyes filled with a mixture of pain and regret.

"Homura, please. Tell me the truth."

Releasing the girl's hand, Madoka pulled Homura into a tight embrace. Homura felt the utter fragility of Madoka's body against her own. Her own arms remained limp by her sides. They stayed like that a long time, between the streetlights, between the light and the dark.

For a moment Madoka thought she wouldn't be able to get through to her. But at last Homura returned the embrace. She pressed her nose against Madoka's temple, breathing into the girl's ear.

"Okay. I'll tell you."

Homura stepped away and led them inside the building, then to the elevator beyond. They entered Homura's apartment, where Kyouko was sitting on the couch. The redhead saw the two of them together and seemed to understanding immediately.

"Sorry," Homura said. "Can we have a moment?"

Kyouko nodded and gathered her things, leaving the apartment without a word.

Homura guided Madoka into her bedroom and closed the door. She retrieved her laptop and unlocked it, then held it out to Madoka.

Her next words would be damning, she knew. But she said them anyway.

"Here. Read it."

Madoka accepted the laptop and placed it before her on the desk. Homura retreated to the far corner of the room, pressing her back against the wall.

And so for the second time that day, Madoka began to read.

* * *

A/N

Ahhh it's finally happening. Hard to believe the story has finally reached this point.

I think I will aim for monthly updates moving forward.

Also funny story, when Homura visited the diner in this chapter I wrote in a line about her leaving a tip, then had to go back to fix it when I remembered tipping isn't a thing in Japan.

Thanks for reading.

-Banshee


	12. Fall Sky

Chapter Twelve - Fall Sky

The metallic surface of the laptop was cool to the touch; Madoka shivered when it touched her skin. A single word processor was open on the screen.

Homura waited silently from the far wall, where the shadows hid her face. From Madoka's seat by the desk, the girl's face was indiscernible.

A familiar feeling arose from her emotional memory. It was the same feeling she had on that spring day in her mother's study. The walls were closing in, but she felt even smaller.

Two small rectangles of light pulsated in her irises as she read. It was not long before she looked up from the screen, staring into the darkness across the room.

"Homura…what is this?"

The girl in the shadows drew in a shuddering breath, and began to speak.

Her words were hesitant, halting at first, but gained in strength as they continued. It felt to Madoka like stepping out to a windy fall evening after a day spent inside; the presence of something natural but unexpected made its presence known, whirling forth to consume her. Madoka found herself unable to do much other than listen, her fingers frozen still against Homura's laptop keyboard.

The tale Homura spun was an impossible one. Yet Madoka could see in the girl's eyes that it was the truth. A car swept by outside, its headlights pouring through the half open blinds over the window. For a brief moment those eyes were illuminated, and Madoka glimpsed the agony therein.

It was a tale of deception, of dark intentions. But at times the story was also sweet and tender. The revelations she faced then cut so deep they threatened to split her in half. Shock gave way to emptiness as she listened. She wanted to deny what she heard, but the sincerity in Homura's eyes was absolute. The car ride was over; it was time to wake up.

An eternity filled that small bedroom wrapped in shadows. As Homura's tale reached its unfinished conclusion her voice was raw, from overuse or emotion Madoka could not say.

"And that's everything. The whole truth," Homura said. "I know I lied to you. But I don't want to lie to you anymore. When Toby called, I was so scared I got sick. I realized it was because I didn't want to lose you."

She paused then, clenching her fists. The regret in her expression was evident as she continued.

"I shouldn't have written a single word of that manuscript. What I did was wrong, and I regret it. Madoka…I am truly sorry."

Homura bowed her head before Madoka, and remained in that position. Silence reigned as Madoka's lips parted slightly, with no words forthcoming.

Tears had formed in the rims of her eyes, but she did not know if she had the right to let them fall. Her fingertips pulsed against the keyboard, as if urging her to bring an end to the story.

It was such a familiar feeling. Just like that day across from the _Midoriiro,_ and no less devastating, but she found herself unable to cry out in agony or anger. The hollow of her chest felt cold and numb, rubbed raw by that windy fall evening.

At last she tried to speak, but only managed a small noise. Homura looked up as Madoka wiped at her eyes, sniffing deeply.

"S-Sorry," she said finally, pressing her palms against her eyes. "It's just…I don't know what to do."

Homura stood up, her face strained. She waited as Madoka took several shuddering breaths, swallowing thickly to bury her tears.

At last the girl had calmed somewhat, and she gazed at the window with red rimmed eyes.

"You know…first, it was Mama," Madoka said. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. "And then, Sayaka. I thought…back then, I just wanted to blame them. But now, you…I'm starting to think there must be something wrong with me."

Homura's eyes widened, and she shook her head. "You've done nothing wrong."

"Then why does this keep happening to me?" Madoka asked. "Why just me? Maybe you're right. Maybe I am weak and naive."

Homura's head shook violently again, her hand rising to clutch her chest. "I don't think that about you any-"

"When I found out about Mama, I thought a long time about what I should do," Madoka said. "I thought about telling Papa. I thought about doing nothing. In the end I couldn't decide. But it keeps happening, Homura, and I don't know what I should do. What would you do if it was you? Would you forgive yourself, or walk away?"

Homura's lips parted slightly. The hand against her chest went limp and fell by her side.

"I can't make that decision for you," she said. "I knew that you may never forgive me for what I've done. In the end, whatever decision you make for yourself…I will support it."

Madoka bit her lip, and lowered her head. She felt a deep shame for having asked Homura what she did.

"All I know is I want to stay by your side," Homura continued. "Whatever happens, I want to help you through it. The time we've spent together…I don't want it to end. I know it's selfish. I know I don't deserve it. But those are my honest feelings."

As she said this she reached down and took Madoka's hand. The girl looked up from her seat and for a moment their eyes met. Madoka saw genuine emotion in those dark irises.

"You don't have to make a decision now," Homura said. "If you need time…I'll wait for you."

They stayed like that for a moment. After a brief spell Madoka looked away. Her hand slipped from Homura's grip, and when she spoke she sounded very far away.

"I…I don't know," she murmured. "I don't trust myself to make the right decision right now. I need some time alone."

Homura seemed stricken. She nodded with difficulty. "I understand."

Madoka rose from her seat and approached the door. As she grasped the knob she paused, turning slightly in Homura's direction. The vacant look in the girl's eyes sent a shudder down Homura's spine.

"Could you send me a copy of your manuscript?" Madoka asked. "For later."

Homura hesitated a moment. "…I will."

Together they walked to the front door, where Madoka slipped into her shoes. As she rose they nearly came eye to eye again, but she averted her gaze.

"I don't think we should see each other for a while," she said. "For now…this is goodbye."

Madoka opened the door and slipped away. It was still the middle of summer, but Homura was cold when that door clicked shut. She felt like an old woman saying goodbye to spring, not knowing if she would live to see another.

* * *

Twilight was the best part of the day.

In the mornings she rose early, before anyone else in the house. After taking a shower to wake herself up she shuffled downstairs and made herself breakfast, often jam spread over toast. She was always careful not to take more than two slices, and never failed to clean the knife she used in the sink before leaving. Anything less would draw the ire of her mother.

She did not mind these quiet moments that accompanied her mornings. The kitchen was cramped, and the curtains were too old and worn out to actually block the sun, but the time was hers alone.

Once she had eaten she took her bike from the shed out back and headed to school. Her house sat on the outskirts of town, the commute a few miles each way. She initially started biking to school to strengthen her heart, as well as get in a little exercise. She did nothing else to preserve her health, so it was the least she could do.

A long dirt road barely wide enough for two cars stretched before her each morning. The town Homura grew up in was neither large nor particularly special. It was a middle of nowhere town, an afterthought to the passengers on the planes she saw soaring overhead on occasion. Huge fields of grass stretched out on either side of her as she pedaled. It was so quiet she could hear the crunch of her tires against the road. With no light pollution the sky was clear and present, tinged a soft blue-gray like the belly of a whale.

The dirt road turned into pavement as she neared school. She left her biked chained to a stand by the gate and swapped her outdoor shoes for indoor ones, never speaking to the other students greeting each other at the lockers around her.

In class she paid just enough attention to obtain passable marks. As the saying went, the nail that sticks out gets hammered down. She took careful notes through the basics of each lesson and spared herself the specifics, often staring out the window and daydreaming.

By midday the sun had risen to warm the skin on her arm through the glass. She was glad for this seat, by the window and two rows from the back, where she was easily accounted for but rarely called upon.

During lunch break she gathered her things and hurried to the school library, of which she was the sole caretaker. It was a tiny library, with a sorry collection of old and beat up books. No one cared for it, and it was on the verge of being shut down until Homura convinced the teachers to let her look after it. Seeing an opportunity to both avoid more work and obtain free labor, they allowed her to count being the designated librarian as a club activity.

She spent the first several days of the term fixing up her newfound sanctuary. From the storage room she borrowed cleaning materials and got to work, sweeping the floor and wiping down the tables. She put on some music while she cleaned, Schubert and a bit of Schumann, humming softly to herself.

Once she had thrown open the windows and aired out the place she began the long process of taking each book down from its shelf and dusting it, placing it back in alphabetical order by author.

It didn't take her very long; the library was no larger than a typical classroom. If anything she wished it had taken longer. Once she was done she took a seat behind the librarian's desk by the door and cracked open a copy of _Norwegian Wood._ Its association with those blissful early days was why she regarded it her favorite Murakami work.

Unfortunately, any revamped space was bound to attract some sightseers. Students would occasionally come during lunch breaks, talking loudly and spilling crumbs all over the place. Homura hated these students with an unwavering passion, and spent much of her time thinking of ways to eradicate them from the earth. She briefly considered locking the library during lunch, but was wary of losing her special privileges if complaints were made.

Instead she opted to glower from her desk, making it as uncomfortable as possible for anyone else in the room. Eventually students stopped frequenting the library, returning occasionally only to be quickly reminded of why everyone else chose to stay away.

After her afternoon classes she returned to her sanctuary, where she often stayed as late as seven at night. Her father rarely reached home from work before that, and no one got to have dinner until he returned. As such she saw no reason to go home any earlier. She much preferred her little corner of the world.

From about three to five the track team held its practice outside. The constant chanting and shouting from the players was too distracting for relaxed reading, so she typically spent this time copy editing articles. The old man who ran the local paper handed her a stack of editorials each week, which she promptly returned with grammatical and spelling corrections. He was a grumpy little thing but paid well, enough for her to buy herself a cheap lunch on most days.

Once she had asked him what he thought about her writing for the paper, to which he snorted before handing her that week's pay and closing the door in her face.

After she was done she did some reading, or studied until it was time to go home. Homura spent the majority of her days in this manner upon reaching high school. She unchained her bike from the stand by the gate and pedaled home under cover of darkness, her bike light piercing through the murk. She could never see it, but eventually the pavement gave way to dirt, and the strident cries of countless grasshoppers filled her ears.

A month passed with terrifying ease. She assumed three years would also slip by with no problem at all. Being young and naive, the idea of wasting time did not disturb her. Each afternoon she listened to the voices of the girls on the track team that trickled through the window, and wondered which of them was the one with the chestnut brown hair.

She could picture it clearly, her upperclassman sprinting the length of the track with her hair tied back into a ponytail. Perhaps if Homura were to go peek through the window of a classroom, she would spot the girl from afar. But her curiosity never overpowered her aversion to change. She was sedated back then, with no ambitions and too many fears.

But that all changed one fateful afternoon.

Homura was none the wiser. She was busy being absorbed by _Norwegian Wood,_ which she was reading for the second time. She often did this, developing an unwillingness to move on from things she liked. There were many books she had read several times for this reason.

The track team's voices faded as the sun set behind the horizon. The wooden furniture in the room took on a soft orange hue. Twilit heat lulled her into a shallow daze. When the door to the library slid open she almost didn't notice it, unused to being disturbed as she was.

"…Hello?"

Homura blinked and looked up.

The upperclassman with the chestnut brown hair smiled back, tiling her head slightly to the side.

Homura sat up abruptly and nearly dropped the book in her hands, gasping softly. The girl raised an eyebrow as Homura juggled the book for a moment, finally seizing and setting it aside.

"Can…can I help you?" She said at last, blushing profusely.

The girl held a hand to her mouth and giggled softly, which mortified Homura. "Yes, I think you can. Are you the librarian?"

Homura nodded meekly. "Yes, I am."

"I'm looking for a book, for a report I'm writing." A smile lingered upon the girl's lips. Homura found herself distracted by them.

"What book, exactly?"

"A copy of _Norwegian Wood." _The girl's gaze fell to the book by Homura's elbow.

Homura followed her upperclassman's eyes, then snatched up the book and held it out.

"H-Here!" She stammered.

The girl's eyes widened. "Weren't you in the middle of reading that? I can take a different copy."

"It's fine!" Homura insisted, shaking her head. "This is the only copy."

The girl blinked, then gave a sighing smile. "Then I'll get it back to you as soon as I can."

She took the book from Homura's clammy hands. Homura noticed she folded the corner of a page before closing it again.

"Is there anything else you needed?" Homura asked hesitantly.

The girl looked up and shook her head. "No, that was it. What's your name?"

Homura nearly tripped over her tongue trying to respond. "Akemi. Akemi Homura."

"Homura," the girl said contemplatively. "You have a nice name. I'm Tojo. Tojo Asami. Thank you for the book, Homura. I'll see you around."

She held her hand out. Homura's heart fluttered softly as she gingerly shook it. Asami's fingers were thin and warm.

Asami waved goodbye and left the library. The door closed gently behind her.

Only after her footsteps had faded did Homura collapse onto the desk, holding both hands over her head.

* * *

Madoka was in a foggy daze as she left Homura's apartment. Her feet moved by instinct, taking her to the bus stop where she got on and sat absently in a seat near the back. Her phone buzzed, and when she looked at it she saw it was the manuscript she had asked for, attached to a blank email with no subject line.

A vague sense of sadness stirred within her but never emerged. Her soul was convinced that now was not the time to cry or complain. She understood intimately that doing so would change nothing.

She got off near her apartment and took the elevator up. When she opened the door Kyouko and Sayaka were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, neither speaking to the other.

Both girls looked up abruptly when Madoka entered. Sayaka rose quickly from her seat, while Kyouko remained where she was.

"Madoka." Sayaka's eyes were searching, raking over Madoka's skin.

"Hi, Sayaka." Madoka averted her gaze and focused on Kyouko instead. "Sorry for kicking you out."

Kyouko shook her head, rising from her seat. "It's cool. It happens. Is Homura still home?"

"I think so."

She nodded. "I'll be heading back, then. Call me if you need anything."

Madoka wasn't sure if those words were for Sayaka or herself. As the door shut behind them, she walked past Sayaka and into her room.

"Madoka…" Sayaka said, but the bedroom door was quickly shut.

Once she was alone, Madoka stood in the center of her room and knew immediately she could not spend the night there. She was not safe, so close to a source of stress she knew not how to confront.

_You always do this. You always run away._

She flexed the fingers on one hand in agitation. From her closet she grabbed a duffel bag and began filling it with clothes. Halfway through she abruptly stopped and grabbed her phone, dialing a number before holding it to her ear.

"Hello…Mr. Yanagida?"

Once she was off the phone she went back to packing. She folded three days of clothes and toiletries. It reminded her of packing for the camping trips her family used to go on. That felt like a million years ago now.

After packing she looked up and saw that it had begun to rain, a soft summer drizzle that cloaked her street in mist. Reaching under her bed, she retrieved an umbrella before heading for the door.

Sayaka was standing on the other side. She started when the door abruptly opened, eyes darting to the bag and umbrella in her roommate's hands.

"…Where are you going?" She asked.

Madoka looked away. "Home. Just for a few days."

Sayaka crossed her arms. "Is that the truth?"

Madoka said nothing.

Sayaka bit her lip and touched her friend's arm. "Look, have you been okay lately? You're acting weird. Kyouko called and she said she needed to come over all of a sudden. She said something's going on with you and Homura."

The rain grew heavier outside. The look in Madoka's eyes grew vacant. "It's fine. You don't need to worry about it."

"So something did happen," Sayaka insisted. "I can tell when you're lying, Madoka. How long have we known each other? If you tell me what's going on I can help."

Madoka shook her head and pushed past her roommate. Sayaka followed her to the front door, grabbing her arm.

"Madoka!"

Madoka stopped suddenly and turned around. Sayaka took a step back when she saw the look on the girl's face.

"Sayaka, please," she said, her voice flat. "I need some space to think. If you want to help, just leave me alone."

Madoka slipped free from her roommate's grasp and left the apartment.

Sayaka was left standing alone in the living room, listening to the pitter patter of the rain outside.

* * *

Homura spent the next three days in a state of perpetual anxiety. During each lunch break and after school period she sat apprehensively at her desk by the library door, wondering if or when Asami would return.

She got so nervous she took out some paper and did some math. _Norwegian Wood_ was roughly three hundred pages long. She could easily read a hundred pages in a single sitting, but understood she was on the higher end of that spectrum. Fifty pages an hour, then. Six hours to read the entirety of _Norwegian Wood,_ spread over the course of a week or so. Her ultimate conclusion was that it could take anywhere from two to eight days for Asami to finish the book, depending on her reading speed and amount of free time at hand.

In other words, the entire exercise was pointless.

She crumpled up the paper and threw it in the bin. The entire thing was pointless, in fact. Homura wasn't stupid. She knew her obsession with her upperclassman was illogical and embarrassing. But embarrassing truths were still true.

Reaching into her desk, she took out more paper and began to free write instead. What lay at the heart of her strange fixation? She recalled the morning on the bus, where they stood pressed against one another. She doubted Asami even remembered that incident. But Homura hadn't been able to forget it, the way she smelled like a field of dandelions at dawn.

It was so embarrassing. Obsessing over a girl for such a base reason. And why a girl? Why Asami? Did she swing that way? Who knew? Not her!

This time she crumped up three pieces of paper before chucking them at the bin. She missed.

_I'm such an idiot._

Three days passed in this manner. With her progress through _Norwegian Wood_ stalled, she instead picked up _To Kill a Mockingbird,_ a novel that was highly acclaimed overseas. Though it was good, she struggled to relate to the characters and felt distracted while reading it.

On the third day it rained, a caustic fall rain that lashed against the windows of the library. Homura made sure to lock them tightly before heading for her afternoon classes, listening to the wind howl outside.

Once class had concluded the students huddled together in the locker room, hunting down umbrellas or calling parents to come pick them up. Homura pushed against the stream of kids as she made her way to the library. She wondered what the track team would do. Surely they could not hold practice in this weather.

In the library she sat down and tried to act like she was engrossed in _To Kill a Mockingbird._ But not five minutes later a knock came from the door, sending Homura's heart leaping into her throat. She set the book aside and took a deep breath before calling out.

"Come in."

Asami pulled the door aside and entered. Her blazer was draped over one arm, the sleeves of her uniform rolled up to the elbows. A book bag was slung over her shoulder. Under the other arm was the book she had borrowed.

"Hey." She gave a soft smile. "Mind if I get some work done here?"

Homura shook her head vigorously. Asami walked over to one of the tables near the entrance and set her things down, taking out a small laptop computer. She opened the book to a marked page and flipped through it for a few minutes before beginning to type.

She said nothing further, apparently engrossed in her work. Homura sank low in her chair and stood her own book on the desk in front of her. Rain plinked off the windows outside, bringing attention to the acute silence that would have existed otherwise. Stormy afternoons in the library were usually a personal favorite, but today was proving to be anxiety inducing.

Angling her book forward, she peeked at Asami's features from afar. The girl's hair shone a dark caramel beneath the warm library lights. Her brows, surprisingly strong from a girl, framed a thoughtful expression. She worked her mouth a lot as she worked, pursing and chewing on her lips like she was trying not to smile to herself. Homura found it oddly endearing.

Asami shifted in her seat, sending Homura scurrying back behind her book. She took out a pair of blue-light filtering glasses and perched them on her nose. Through the lenses Homura saw the bright amber of her eyes, soft and mellow like her favorite twilight sun.

They passed two hours in silence. Homura got through about twenty pages in this time, as her eyes kept gravitating elsewhere against her will. At this rate it would have taken her two weeks to finish _Norwegian Wood._

At last Asami sat back with a sigh. She rose from her seat and walked over to the printer, which whirred as it spat out her print job. She stacked the papers and returned to her desk for the book, before bringing both to where Homura was sitting.

"Got a stapler?" She asked.

Homura fumbled briefly, yanking open three desk drawers before she saw a stapler and grabbed it. She handed it to Asami, who took it and stapled her papers.

"Thanks. This thing is due tomorrow," she said. "Here's your book, by the way. Thanks for letting me borrow it."

Homura accepted the copy of _Norwegian Wood_ from her upperclassman. She noticed a small lavender colored bookmark had been placed where Homura had read up to.

She blushed and set the book aside. "It's my job."

Asami grabbed a nearby chair and set it in front of Homura's desk, taking a seat. "I noticed you were about halfway through it. Looks like I interrupted just as it was getting good."

Homura shook her head. "That's fine. I've read it before."

"So it's your second time! I'll admit, I don't read much. If something's popular with the other girls I'll pick it up. Usually trendy light novels. I don't reread those though."

Homura smiled softly. "I've read many books. But there aren't many books I like."

Asami laughed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

A peal of thunder rolled across the sky outside. Both girls glanced at the windows in unison, at the tree branches thrashing back and forth beyond.

"That isn't letting up anytime soon," Homura noted.

"Tell me about it." Asami sighed and leaned forward, laying her chin on the desk. Homura fidgeted at her proximity. "Why don't we kill some time?"

That was her first real conversation with the upperclassman she used to admire from afar. She remembered the fine details of that first interaction with startling clarity, hungry as she was to know more about the girl.

Asami was a third year, and a member of the girls' track team. She had joined on a whim last year when she woke up late for her first day of school and sprinted at maximum speed to reach class in time. Apparently she unknowingly blew past the captain of the track team in the process, who later visited Asami's class to recruit her.

Homura let out a small laugh. "People don't typically get recruited that way, do they?"

Asami held her hands up. "Obviously not. She didn't make me join or anything. Just asked me to attend a few practices to try it out. But I ended up liking it a lot."

"How come?"

"Everyone's really nice. The practices are tough, but we do everything together. We train together, stay overnight at meets together…At some point we all kind of know how the others are feeling, without having to use words. That feeling…I don't know what it's called. But I like it a lot."

Those words struck a cord within Homura. She felt a giddy smile forming that she quickly quashed.

Outside, the rain began to abate. Small rays of twilight sun peeked through the cloud cover, refracting off the water droplets clinging to the windows. Though Homura mostly listened, she also shared a bit about herself.

Asami's eyes widened. "So you run this whole place? All by yourself?"

"More or less. No one else is willing to do it."

"And you're here every day, until night?"

"Pretty much."

"You don't get lonely?"

"Alone and lonely aren't the same thing. And no, I like being by myself."

Asami pouted. "Even now?"

Homura flapped her hands. "That's not what I meant."

The other girl laughed. "I know. So do you want to be a librarian one day?"

"Not particularly. This is just a place where I can be relax. As you can see, I am rather antisocial."

Asami smiled. "You don't seem antisocial to me."

Homura averted her gaze. "I'm not antisocial to everyone."

A beam of sunlight snuck through the window. The rain had subsided. An orange sun retook its mantle in the sky, burning away the clouds.

Asami lifted both arms above her head and stretched luxuriously. Her form, lithe and athletic, cast an elegant shadow across the floor of the library.

"Well then," she said. "Shall we head home?"

The two of them gathered their things and left the library, stopping momentarily so Homura could lock the door. They then took the stairs down to the lockers, where swapping out their shoes and retrieving their umbrellas. Homura unchained her bike from the stand while Asami waited, her fingers slipping on the slick rainwater coating the lock.

They walked side by side to the gate. Homura wiped down the seat and handles of her bike before getting on. Huge puddles pockmarked the street before them, hot red clouds reflected there like gouts of fire frozen in time.

Asami took a deep breath, taking in that smell that lingered after a rain. "It's been a while since it rained this hard. Time sure flies."

Homura drummed her fingers across the handles of her bike. "Do you usually stay out this late?"

"The track team meets after school every day. After that, I usually pick a random classroom and study until the sun goes down. My parents want me to go to a good college in the city, but we can't afford cram school. I got the teachers to lend me some extra materials, but they can't let me take them home, obviously."

Homura blinked. "So you're here late every day too?"

"Pretty much. I was surprised when I found out about you, Homura. If you think about it, we were probably alone in the building together every day without knowing it. Funny coincidence, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Homura murmured. "Funny."

Asami smiled. "It's nice to know I'm not all alone though. If I feel like coming by again, can I visit you? I'll try not to be a bother."

Homura's cheeks colored. "You won't be a bother."

"I appreciate that. Well, I'll be heading home now. See you later."

Asami waved and headed off in the opposite direction. Homura watched as her upperclassman's graceful form receded into the distance.

"See you later," Homura murmured back. She couldn't remember the last time she had said something like that.

After a while she shook herself and kicked up the stand of her bike, pedaling down the street.

A strange feeling gripped her as she made her way home. The wind played with her hair as she rode, fresh and cool after the rain. The sky was a wild mix of citrus and azure, like an explosion caught in real time. Her heart rate quickened as she pushed the bike to go faster. The day was over but it wasn't quite nighttime yet; at the border separating today and tomorrow Homura found herself smiling as she headed home.

Twilight was the best part of the day.

* * *

A/N

And the promised monthly update is here at last. There's a lot going on in this chapter, so I took some extra time to balance everything out. I do apologize for the long wait between chapters, but we are approaching the eventual conclusion of this story, slowly but surely.

Writing Homura's high school scenes was an interesting experience, by the way. I was trying to convey a sense of adolescent awkwardness, and in doing so I think I slipped back into my older writing style from the past.

Any feedback is greatly appreciated. I do take everyone's comments into account.

Thanks for reading!

-Banshee


	13. Starlight

Chapter Thirteen - Starlight

Madoka woke to an unfamiliar ceiling.

It was a low ceiling, much closer than the one in her apartment, and certainly closer than in her bedroom at home. The mattress was firmer than she preferred, the sheets didn't carry her scent; in search of an explanation, her mind recalled the events of the previous day.

Rain was pouring from the night sky when she showed up on Yanagida's doorstep. The reclusive man lived in the unit above his store, a cramped apartment that served as little more than a place to eat and sleep. Madoka knew he considered the store as much a part of his home as the apartment itself.

His eyes were awash in questions when he opened the door, but after seeing Madoka's face he did not voice them. Instead he ushered her inside, drew a bath and gave her his bed, even changing out the sheets beforehand. She would have been fine with the couch, but he insisted, and a sudden tiredness dragged at her when she hit the mattress.

Madoka sat up in bed and surveyed the room. A small Gundam model kit lay open on a table by the door, halfway complete. Next to it was a toolbox packed with an array of tweezers and other tools. A pang of guilt pricked her when she saw a steaming mug of chamomile tea waiting for her on the dresser. Yanagida must have gone down to open the shop already.

She checked the time and saw that it was just past eight. The back-alley apartment didn't get much sun, but it was removed from the street noise. As she nursed the mug in her hands, she felt like she had been tucked away into a tiny crack in an overlooked corner of the world.

That same muted feeling from before remained in the pit of her stomach. The warmth from the tea, the morning chill, all of it felt very far away, like a work of fiction.

The light from her phone screen pierced the soft gray shadows of the room. Homura's email remained unopened. Madoka's thumb hesitated above the screen. Part of her wanted to leave it, delete it even, and hide away in this forgotten hole forever. But even if everyone forgot about her, she would surely never forget them.

She needed to know. That desire for understanding stirred within her, the same one from the night she and Homura watched _In the Mood for Love. _That feeling spurred her to begin reading.

* * *

_'I probably still haven't completely adapted to the world…I feel like this isn't reality. The people, the scene; they just don't seem real to me.'_

It was a quote from _Norwegian Wood_ that stood out to Homura during her second read through. She hadn't really noticed it the first time, filled with such asides as Murakami's writing was. But the second time it stuck, and she found herself thinking about the quote often.

Homura didn't really have anything she cared about back then. There was nothing that came to her mind the moment she woke up in the morning; nothing left unresolved when she fell asleep at night. She did well enough in school, but was far from exceptional. Teachers knew her surname but not her given name. Not once was a nasty rumor spread about her in class. Not once did she catch a boy stealing a glance at her from his desk. She merely existed, neither here nor there, like the sand that lay beneath the ocean. Undeniable but overlooked.

She was aware, at least peripherally, that she was wasting time. Yet she continued to do as she always did, spending her afternoons in the library alone. Because it didn't feel like reality, she lacked any sense of urgency.

Asami was different. Following the twilight storm, Homura's upperclassman began to frequent the library after class. They rarely spoke once she arrived; instead she would take a seat by the windows, where she would invariably study until the sun went down. Asami never took breaks, instead preferring to continue until the day's work was done.

Homura felt restless watching Asami study so relentlessly each and every day. She found it difficult to sit and read idly while the girl was present. It made her acutely aware of the time she was wasting, a truth she had grown used to not acknowledging.

Her eyes darted over as she flipped to the next page.

_'Don't feel sorry for yourself. Only assholes do that.'_

Thanks, Murakami.

Once Asami was done studying she would bring a chair over and set it down across from Homura. The two of them would then talk about nothing in particular, until the sky grew dark and it was time to head home.

"I stopped by the bookstore and bought a copy of _Norwegian Wood,_" Asami said, setting it on the desk. "I had to rush through it to write the report, but I didn't want to take it from you again."

Homura smiled softly. "I wouldn't have minded. It's my job."

"The library can have this copy once I'm done. That way you can have two." Asami flipped through the book. "I'll read you some quotes I like. Midori's my favorite character so far. Here's this part where she says, 'I may be a little bit mad, but I'm a good girl, and honest, and I work hard. I'm kind of cute, I have nice boobs, I'm a good cook, and my father left me a trust fund. I mean, I'm a real bargain, don't you think?'"

Homura rolled her eyes. "Are you still talking about Midori?"

"You're such a flirt. Oh, and this part where she goes, 'The whole world is donkey shit.'"

"She was talking about traveling through Uruguay."

"When do two people sit around talking about donkey shit and Uruguay?"

Homura smiled. Asami met her eyes and they shared a laugh.

"Okay, maybe people do."

"Midori is rather eclectic," Homura admitted.

"_Way_ better than Naoko. Much more straightforward." Asami's eyes softened. "I like this one a lot too. 'I'm looking for selfishness. Perfect selfishness.'"

"Which part is that?"

"When Midori's talking about how she wants a man who will drop everything to buy a strawberry shortcake for her, just so she can throw it out the window. Then she wants him to apologize for having all the 'intelligence and sensitivity of a piece of donkey shit.'"

"I never realized how much Midori likes donkey shit."

"I know, right? She's nuts. That's why I like her."

Their initial interactions were strictly confined to the library. Homura quickly noticed that Asami was never alone. During a couple lunch breaks she took a detour on the way to the library, fancying that she would run into Asami and invite her to eat together. But the girl was always at her desk, surrounded by a knot of other students. Asami was always smiling and laughing; she seemed an easy center of attention.

One afternoon Homura left the library and walked to the hallway that overlooked the track behind the school. From there she peered through the window at the track team holding practice. Each of the girls were taking turns sprinting once around the track to measure their times. Asami sat on the grass nearby, chatting with the others. The sun was strong that day and their bodies, glistening with sweat, appeared vigorous and powerful. When it was Asami's turn to run Homura looked away and returned to the library.

"Do you bike to and from school every day?" Asami asked her once.

Homura was busy unchaining her bike from its stand. "Yes, weather permitting."

"Why don't you just take the bus?"

Homura thought about it. "I don't like standing around next to other people. It makes me uncomfortable."

Asami laughed. "So you'd rather wake up extra early every morning to bike to school?"

"Pretty much."

"That's some serious dedication."

"My priorities may be out of order, but I do have them."

They left the grounds together. From the gate extended a long road that later branched towards the main town in one direction, and Homura's house in the other.

"Why don't you come running with me this weekend?" Asami said. "We have a meet coming up and I want to train, but none of the girls are free."

They met that weekend at the school track, on a morning wreathed in fog. Homura managed about a mile's worth of laps before collapsing onto the grass nearby, gasping for air. After she had recovered she watched Asami run laps around the track, her long ponytail flying behind her. Homura had looked away before, but as she watched now she found herself oddly bound by the girl's form. Asami was just running in circles, but Homura felt like she was being left behind.

Afterwards they laid side by side with their bodies splayed out on the grass.

"Can I ask you something?" Asami said.

"Sure."

"Have you got any friends?"

Homura looked over. "Are you picking a fight?"

Asami laughed. "No. Genuine question."

"Not really. I didn't really have friends in middle school, and I don't really have friends now. I don't think people hate me or anything. But I don't have friends."

"Why?"

It took Homura a long time to answer.

"I guess I just like being by myself," She said finally.

"Hmm." Asami blew her bangs out of her eyes. "Well, at least you've got me. We're friends, aren't we?"

"I suppose."

Asami pouted. "What kind of a response is that? This is why you've got no friends."

"You're probably right."

Asami chuckled. After a while she sat up and looked at the track, turning her head away from Homura.

"Well, I guess I'm kind of glad you're a loner," she said.

"Why's that?"

"If you weren't, I'd still be studying by myself every day."

Homura found herself thinking about her upperclassman's question as she lay in bed that night. She didn't really know why she didn't have friends. She never decided one day that she wouldn't. Things just sort of ended up that way. It wasn't like she was against having friends.

Asami had friends, and she studied hard, and ran till her legs gave out on the weekends. She was pretty, probably had nice boobs and was a good cook, and perhaps her father had even left her a trust fund. A real bargain. She was likely experiencing things Homura could only approximate through reading. Asami must know so much more about the world than her, despite being only two years older.

She was reminded of this whenever they touched each other. Asami touched others without a second thought; during conversation she reached out and brushed a hand or pressed their shoulders together with a practiced ease. Meanwhile Homura found herself memorizing the softness of the girl's hands, the shape of her shoulder. She lacked the courage to touch Asami herself, knowing it was unlike her.

Unfortunately, Homura couldn't know what she didn't know.

One afternoon Asami came to the library and opened the door without knocking. She usually knocked twice, only entering once Homura called out. But today she didn't, instead grabbing a nearby chair and setting it down next to Homura's. She had Homura turn to the side so they could sit back to back, both leaning on the other. Then she took out her copy of _Norwegian Wood_ and began reading, flipping through the pages pointedly.

"You don't have to study today?" Homura asked.

"I don't want to," was all Asami said.

Homura wished she could turn to see the girl's face, but did not dare. Partly because she wanted to stay like that, but also because the agitation radiating from Asami's body was palpable. Looking would only serve as confirmation.

They both read in silence for about half an hour before Asami spoke again.

"I don't like Naoko," she said. "She's nice enough on the outside, but she's got this dark side to her."

She was talking about the book. Homura flipped a page. "Naoko certainly has a dark side. But I enjoyed her character."

"I just don't get it." Asami's voice reverberated against Homura's back. "The main character is in love with her. She knows that. He'd probably do anything for her. But she keeps pulling away. I feel for him."

"Naoko's first lover committed suicide," Homura pointed out. "She hasn't gotten over it yet."

"I get that. But people come in and out of your life," Asami muttered. "What else are you supposed to do? You have to move on."

Homura said nothing more. In the ensuing silence she tried to piece together Asami's words and actions but couldn't quite figure out what was bothering the girl. It occurred to her then that she didn't understand Asami at all. The girl never really talked about herself. She liked peaches and strawberries, she ran track, was at the top of her class and all her peers liked her. But Homura didn't truly understand her. The realization made her feel lonely.

After a while they gathered their things and left the library. Asami walked a bit ahead as Homura followed her down the long road that led them away from school. The sun set much earlier this late in the semester. Half the sky was still a fiery orange, the other half dotted with stars. Asami tilted her head back as they walked.

"I've loved the stars since I was a kid," she said suddenly. "I was a huge science nut in elementary school. Obsessed with space and things like that. I learned the names of all the constellations. Was really into star signs in middle school too, back when that was popular. I'm a Gemini, by the way."

"I have no idea what I am."

"When were you born?"

"February 22nd. Triple deuces."

"Then you're a Pisces." Asami smiled to herself. "Terrible compatibility with Geminis."

"I knew it had to be something."

Asami stuck her tongue out. They walked a bit more as the sky darkened further.

"You know that mountain in the distance?" Asami said, pointing. "If you hike up there on a clear night, you can see so many stars it just blows you away. My dad used to take me up there all the time a couple years ago. Even before we moved here, he'd always take me stargazing. I always thought we'd keep doing that. I thought once he got too old, I'd take him up the mountain instead. But we don't go anymore. We haven't been in years. He keeps promising to take me, but he never does."

Her tone had grown dark and somber. They reached the end of the long road, where it split in two directions. Here they typically parted ways. Homura kicked the stand on her bike and set it down, drumming her fingers nervously on the handlebars.

"Can I ask you something?" Homura said.

Asami turned towards her. Homura caught the girl's eyes and was taken aback by the raw emotion she saw therein. Suddenly she couldn't bring herself to say what she wanted to, and she found herself looking down at the ground instead, searching for something else.

"Why did you start rereading _Norwegian Wood?_" Homura asked. "I thought you didn't reread books."

Asami blinked, then smiled softly. When Homura mustered the courage to look at her again the brief chink in the girl's armor was gone, replaced by the usual Asami.

"You said there aren't many books you like," she said. "And I wanted to understand you better."

As Homura biked home that night, she thought she might have figured out why she didn't have friends. The utter enigma of the "other" was what terrified her. Characters in novels, even Murakami novels, were simple and easy to understand. She didn't like associating with others because they confused her, confounded her. It was proof that she didn't know a damn thing about life or how to live it, and it was an ignorance she didn't know how to tackle, let alone overcome.

After that day Asami never skipped another day of studying. She came in after knocking twice as usual and worked as diligently as ever. But she now felt utterly unapproachable when she studied. An aura of rage emanated from the desk by the window each afternoon. It was so acute, so miasmic that Homura became terrified to ask the begging aside from the apprehension, Homura didn't ask because she might fail to understand the answer.

These circumstances continued for a number of weeks, until one day Asami didn't come to the library. Or the next, or the next. Asami disappeared for a full week without a trace. When Homura peeked into the girl's classroom she was still there, but she did not come to the library. They had never shared contact information, so it really felt like her upperclassman's existence had been scrubbed clean from her life. It seemed that as sudden and unexpected Asami's entrance had been, a person could just as easily leave without warning.

Homura felt a bit sad as she went to bed at the end of that week. But just as she was about to fall asleep, her phone began to ring.

"Hello?" She said, pressing it against her ear.

_"Homura?"_

"Asami? How did you get my number?"

_"I asked a teacher. Said it was for an assignment."_

Her voice sounded shaky. Homura tilted her head. "Are you okay?"

_"Just fine. Listen, are you free tomorrow? And the day after?"_

"I can be."

_"Let's meet by the station in the morning. Eight o'clock."_

"Alright. I'll be there."

_"Okay. Goodnight, Homura."_

"Goodnight, Asami."

* * *

Madoka approached the consumption of Homura's manuscript with an apprehensive caution. From the very first page she read at a painstakingly slow pace, digesting every line before moving on to the next. She only wanted to do this once, and was afraid of missing something, of misunderstanding a critical moment.

Yet as she pressed on, Homura's writing reached out and took her hand. Slowly but surely, Madoka found herself becoming absorbed by the story. The strangeness of reading a tale so clearly based upon recent events was undeniable, but in a way this too served to immerse her in this world of Homura's making.

She began the story fully prepared to hate it. What else could she possibly expect from a literal manifestation of betrayal? But as she read, she felt her tight expression begin to relax. Her eyes, tired and empty like a dry well, flickered briefly. She did her best to let go and allow herself to be guided.

The ensuing journey was not what she would have expected. The tale was raw, devastating, and unrelenting; what felt like all of her deepest insecurities laid bare. But it was also kind. And gentle. Though the story was hurtful, Homura's words were not. Madoka felt a slight stirring of emotion in her chest, struggling against the damp deadness that buried the rest of her, and she knew that these were Homura's true feelings.

This complicated things. Having been denied the opportunity to see Homura as incorruptible, part of Madoka wanted to label the girl completely corrupt. But things weren't so simple; this manuscript was proof enough of that. She felt her soul struggling to reconcile these two entities, the Homura who lied and hurt her and the Homura who could write so tenderly.

She read throughout the morning and the afternoon. When at last she reached the incomplete ending of the manuscript, the sun had nearly set outside. She hadn't eaten all day, but she felt no hunger.

Yanagida returned from the shop downstairs and made another helping of chamomile tea. He handed one to Madoka, who took it but did not drink. They sat across from each other at a small table in the kitchen, by a window that overlooked the alley below.

Yanagida was still wearing his usual face mask when he sat down. He took it off and set it aside to partake in his tea.

"How are you feeling?" He asked. "Are you doing okay?"

Madoka wasn't sure how to answer that. She still felt very far away from herself, like a mere witness to her own experiences. Her reflection in the surface of the tea stared blankly back.

"Homura and I had…a falling out," she said finally. Yanagida observed her carefully. "She had been hiding something from me. It broke my trust in her. I don't know if I can forgive her."

"What did she do?"

Madoka shook her head.

Yanagida did not press further. They were silent for a long time, listening to the muted footsteps beyond the alley.

"One of my old friends from high school visited the shop today," he said. "I hadn't seen him in almost ten years. He came in and said 'Yanagida, you haven't changed one bit! All these years, and you're still here.' It kind of bothered me to hear him say that. He's graduated from college, and he's got a wife and kid on the way. We talked for a while, and once he left I kept thinking about it."

Yanagida finished his tea and picked up his face mask, stretching it gingerly in his hands.

"I didn't go to college," he said. "Didn't want to. I liked it here, in the shop. I wake up, I sell models. The people who come speak my language. I've never really been interested in anything else. I always told myself it was too much trouble."

After fidgeting for a while Yanagida put the mask back over his face. His voice became slightly muffled by the fabric.

"I've always been that way. I hated high school because everyone's made to do things together. Clubs, culture festivals, things like that. Spend enough time with someone and you don't know what to think of them anymore. That's why I've mostly decided to live on my own. But lately I think I might regret that decision."

Madoka looked up. "What do you mean?"

"When my friend left today, I wanted to talk to him a bit more," Yanagida said. "But I didn't know how to tell him that. I couldn't. I mean, it's not something I would do. The words just died in my throat. It might be a little too late for me. I'm already too used to this life. People don't come together all nice and neat like a model kit."

The words were somber, but he said them peacefully. They were the words of a man who had accepted his fate. But Madoka, who had yet to accept hers, understood she was not meant to partake in that peace. Not yet.

They finished their tea and cleaned up. While Yanagida did the dishes Madoka remained seated and thought quietly for a little while.

"Mr. Yanagida?" She said.

"Hm?"

"Is it alright if I spend one more night here?"

He smiled. "Of course. Are you heading back to your apartment tomorrow?"

"No. I'm going home."

* * *

The next morning Homura rose with the sun and set off for the station. She hadn't slept a wink, but fortunately it was a Saturday. Per Asami's instruction she brought a jacket and running shoes, though in her case all she had were a pair of beat up sneakers.

She broke out her bike and pedaled down the dirt road that greeted her every morning. It had been a long time since she last took this road to go meet someone. Knowing someone was waiting for her made the journey feel completely different. The sky was a soft and clear blue; it was a beautiful day.

Asami was waiting at the train station, a large backpack set on the bench beside her. Homura locked her bike to a stand by the entrance and followed her inside, where they bought two tickets and waited quietly on the platform. Aside from a brief greeting they shared no words.

The train arrived two minutes early. When they boarded the car was empty. They chose a seat by the windows where the sunlight painted squares of light on the floor. A moment later the doors slid shut and the train slowly rocked into motion. The gentle swaying of the car lulled Homura to sleep, and she lost consciousness for a while.

When her eyes opened the scenery outside had changed. Her head was resting against Asami's shoulder. Through her cheek she could feel the soft warmth of the girl's skin. When Asami felt Homura shift she reached out and placed a hand on her thigh.

"You can rest a bit more. We aren't there yet."

The buildings outside the train were gone, replaced by farmland and wildlife. She could not have been asleep more than an hour, but already the scenery outside was unrecognizable. She was made to acknowledge just how small her world was.

She must have fallen asleep again, because after a while Asami shook her awake. They left the train and stepped out onto a platform that didn't even have a roof, exposed in its entirety to the sky. As the train trundled off Homura turned and saw the mountain looming behind them.

It was a rather small mountain, probably small enough to be climbed in less than half a day. But she still felt tiny and insignificant before it. Asami shouldered her backpack and led them down a long winding road that took them to the entrance of the trail, where they rested and stretched before setting off.

It was the first time Homura had ever been hiking. In elementary school her class once had a field trip to a mountain, but she was still suffering from her heart condition back then and was excused from the trip. She found herself running out of breath rather quickly, lagging behind even though Asami was the one carrying a backpack. Her upperclassman seemed to notice, and after about an hour they stopped to rest by a large rock that overlooked the valley below.

Asami retrieved a bottle of water from her backpack and handed it to Homura, who accepted it gratefully. It was quiet that morning atop the mountain, but different compared to the library. It was quiet but not still. A thick cluster of trees surrounded the large rock, and Homura could sense they were teeming with life. The air tasted crisp and fresh, free of any conditioning. Being up here felt oddly natural, even though she had never been here before.

"How are you feeling?" Asami asked.

"I'll be ready to continue in a bit," Homura assured her. "You seem to be doing just fine."

Asami smiled wanly. "I've been up this trail many times. It's been a while since I last came, but I still remember it very well."

She turned to look at the view below. Homura watched her upperclassman as she sipped some more water. From her position, all she could see apart from Asami was the edge of the rock and the flat blue of the sky.

Once Homura had recovered they continued up the trail, resting occasionally whenever she grew too tired. The hike was an all day affair; Asami had already informed her that they would be spending the night atop the mountain.

"Asami?" Homura asked as they trekked. The girl was walking a few paces ahead, her form steady and resolute beneath the trees' shade.

"Hm?"

"Why doesn't your dad bring you up here anymore?"

It took a long time for Asami to answer. So long in fact that Homura assumed her question had been ignored. By now the sun had passed its apex and was dipping lower in the sky. They were nearly at the top of the mountain.

They stopped one last time before beginning the final push to the summit. Only once Asami had turned her face away from Homura did she begin to speak.

"My parents split when I was really young," she said, hopping over a large stone that blocked the path. "I was five. My mom came home one day and told my dad she was in love with someone else. They fought over me in court for a while, but because of everything my mom did they gave my dad custody. She still sends money and letters. But I haven't seen her in a long time."

Homura said nothing. Even back then, she preferred to remain silent during moments of revelation.

They passed a small stream that gurgled across the path. Asami jumped across and waited for Homura to join her before continuing.

"We moved around a lot after that," she said. "At first we just didn't want to stay in the same house she used to live in anymore. But then he had trouble finding work. My mom was the breadwinner, you see. My dad worked too, but he didn't make as much as her. He was a writer actually, just like you. Not anymore, though."

"What happened?"

"He gave it up. Didn't have time for it. We had some debt, and I think the economy wasn't so great back then. We had to keep moving. I went to three different elementary schools and two or three middle schools. Honestly, I don't really remember anymore. We moved here a couple years ago when I started high school. That was when my dad told me he wanted me to start studying harder."

The knot of trees they were walking under suddenly vanished, and they were at the summit of the mountain, a flat expanse that opened like a dish beneath the sky. Twilight had begun, and the view from the top was breathtaking.

Homura stopped to marvel at the view, but Asami set her backpack down and started to unpack almost immediately. She took out a tightly rolled tent and set it aside.

"Here, help me set this up."

They spent the next several minutes setting up the tent and making sure it was properly secured. Afterwards Asami took out some packaged home made food and handed some to Homura. They sat on a pair of tree stumps near the edge of the summit and ate, watching the sun sink behind the horizon.

"So you've been here ever since," Homura said.

"Yeah. My dad found work at an insurance company based here. It's a nice little town, and the rent's cheap. He's always traveling though. Always going off someplace, meeting clients or whatever. Half the year he isn't really home."

"I'm sure he's doing his best to provide for you."

"I know. But I still miss him."

"Is that why you study so much?"

Asami dug her heel into the dirt. "We made a deal when we got here. He'd work extra hard, so I had to too. He always says he doesn't want me to have to depend on anybody. 'Be your own person,' he says. I shouldn't need anybody, and that probably includes him. But what's up with that? Maybe I want to need him."

After they were done eating they carefully packed up the containers to avoid attracting animals. Homura went inside the tent and laid down for a bit, resting her tired legs. Outside the sun fully set, and a deep chill crept through the tent. Homura shivered and grabbed her jacket as Asami unzipped the entrance and poked her head in.

"The stars are out," she said. "Come see them with me."

They left the tent and walked to the edge of the summit. Dotting the darkness of the sky was a truly endless array of stars. It was a new moon that night, so nothing contested the starlight above. Homura found herself tilting her head back and turning in a circle to take it all in. She felt very small, but the rest of the known universe had never felt closer either.

Asami let out a delighted noise, spreading her arms out and spinning once beneath the night sky. From a pack secured at her waist she produced a pair of binoculars, which she handed to Homura.

"I wish we had a telescope. But these will have to do," she said. "Take a look through these. Start at the North Star. You can see it there…"

Homura spent the next several minutes peering at the stars Asami pointed out to her. She didn't understand everything she heard, but the warmth in the girl's voice was powerful. All traces of the anxiety from the past week seemed to have gone away.

A gust of wind swept across the summit. Homura shuddered. Even in her jacket she felt cold. Asami went back to the tent and returned with a blanket and thermos filled with piping hot tea. They sat together on a tree stump with the blanket wrapped around their shoulders, warming their hands with the thermos. Homura could feel Asami's heartbeat. Suddenly she was very glad for the cover of darkness.

They sat in silence for a while, drinking their tea. The blanket was warm, but Asami was warmer. Beneath the stars, in this place that was quiet but not still, she felt at peace.

"I had a big fight with my dad yesterday," Asami said. Her voice was low but perfectly audible against Homura's ear. "It was about when we were going to come up here again. In the end I told him I would go by myself. He had another business trip; he isn't home. But I didn't actually want to go alone."

The girl's fist clenched beneath the blanket. Homura took her hand and held it.

"It doesn't have to be him. I just want someone who'll always be there," Asami said. "You know, people can come and go just like that. Even your parents. I'm always searching for perfect selfishness. I've always wanted a forever person."

_A forever person._ Homura wasn't quite sure what Asami meant by that. Even if two people loved each other deeply, one was surely going to die before the other. Departures were inevitable.

Homura squeezed Asami's hand beneath the blanket. "I don't know about forever…but I'm here right now."

Asami smiled and leaned against her. "I know. But you're different, aren't you? You don't mind being by yourself."

Homura could not deny this. She desperately wished to, but to do so would be a betrayal of who she believed she was. But did that even matter? Asami was challenging her, but Homura wasn't ready to leave herself behind.

Some time later they retired to the tent. Asami had only brought one sleeping bag, so they climbed in together and fell asleep back to back. Even pressed up against one another like this, close enough to feel the heat from the other's pulse, Homura felt a million miles away from Asami. For some strange reason she felt like she had failed somehow.

The following morning they packed up and hiked back down the mountain. They waited for the train to arrive and took it back to town. At the station they parted ways, embracing briefly beforehand.

Homura was tired and sweaty when she arrived home. She showered and went about her day, trying to keep her mind off things. But when she laid in bed that night she couldn't stop thinking back to those stars. Despite her exhaustion she had difficulty falling asleep; her body craved another beside it. If only that night on the mountain could have been forever. At that moment she thought she might have understood what Asami meant.

Eternity was fleeting.

* * *

A/N

Extra long chapter this month. I'm pretty excited to be finally bringing Asami's character to life, after hinting at and alluding to her for so long. What do you guys think of her?

Thanks for reading.

-Banshee


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